Born in the Glade
by reddhede
Summary: Minho had faced many challenges in the Maze, but impending fatherhood would trump them all. Slight AU where a girl was one of the early Gladers. Minho/OC, and a bit of Thomas/Newt.
1. Chapter 1

"Welcome to the Glade, Greenie." The girl that helped him to his feet was stunning – her frame was slight, but she was deceptively strong and easily pulled him up. Her hair was long and golden, playfully dancing in time with the wind like a field of wheat. Intelligence sparked behind her stunning green eyes, making them glisten like the dew-soaked grass surrounding them.

Once he was out of the box, she set to work unloading the other things that he hadn't even noticed were contained with him. "Some seeds, some bedding, some knives, and… aha! New pairs of shoes for the runners." She smiled, holding up the pristine sneakers in triumph.

The boy from the box – he didn't even know his own name – was bewildered. He tried to take in his surroundings, but couldn't make sense of it all. There were dozens of boys – around his age, give or take a few years – and just the one girl. His heart deflated a bit when he saw one of the other boys drape his arm around her affectionately.

He didn't have time for disappointment as his mind was flooded with new information. The Glade, the Maze, the runners, the council. It was almost too much. Night fell and they held a celebration in his honor, though he couldn't for the life of him understand why they thought this was something to celebrate.

Suddenly he was in a ring with a boy named Gally, who seemed to harbor an innate hatred toward him. "Come on, take it easy on him, Gally," the girl said. The boy with no name smiled in her direction, but the motion caused him to miss Gally's attack that came from the other side.

"Thomas!" the boy exclaimed, face still planted firmly in the dirt. "My name. It's Thomas!" There was a round of cheers, a few slaps on the back, and much more drinking. Before long, steps became more like stumbles and words became incomprehensible slurs.

Thomas – who was still in his right mind – had been watching the girl closely. He couldn't help it. So he saw when the boy who'd embraced her earlier, who was clearly drunk as a skunk, planted a sloppy kiss on the corner of her mouth and failed to have even enough motor control to properly wrap his arms around her.

"Ugh, sleep it off, Minho," she said, pushing him away.

"Come on," he sloshed, "gotta burn off this alcohol in my system somehow." He waggled his eyebrows and leaned into her again. She took one step to the left and he toppled to the ground.

"What the hell, Emily? I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the slice-and-dice, alright? But it's been weeks – lighten up, already." His ego looked more bruised than his body as he lithely, though clumsily, pushed himself off the grass.

"You always do this! Just… go to bed," she said, storming off. Despite her command, the boy named Minho managed to crawl back the bacchanal and continue his only slightly dampened merriment.

Thomas, with a telling spring in his step, raced after Emily. "Hey," he panted, jogging up next to her. "Are you alright? Looked like that guy… might have been over the line."

She snorted. It was quite unladylike, which made it all the more adorable escaping from her pixie face. "Don't worry – he'll see the line in the morning when I kick his ass back over it." Thomas grinned, and he was rewarded a breathtaking smile in return. "Thomas, is it?" He nodded, enjoying the way his newfound name rolled off her tongue. "I'm Emily." She held out her hand and he shook it, unsure exactly how he knew the greeting. "And I appreciate the concern, but you really don't have to worry about Minho. He can be a real slinthead sometimes, but he's harmless, really."

"Really? He looks like he could plow right through one of those Maze walls."

She laughed and the sound was light and musical, like the tinkling of bells. "Not quite. Though it hasn't stopped him from trying," she rolled her eyes at some memory from long ago.

They walked and talked together for hours, about everything – about the chaos before Alby stepped up to lead them, the grievers that could be heard whizzing just beyond the walls, the runners – of whom Emily was one – who spent their days trying to unlock the secrets of the Maze. The fire had dulled to a soft glow and the boys were quiet and unmoving. The air was warm and still, and there – sitting in the grass next to a beautiful girl – Thomas could almost forget the nightmare he'd awoken in.

The sky was just beginning to change colors, and when her earthy eyes locked on his and she smiled, he thought her a goddess in the mystic glow of the pre-dawn light. And like a supplicant drawn to worship in the most primal way, he leaned down and kissed her full lips.

He felt her lips turn down into a frown and she leaned away from him. "Whoa, whoa. Thomas," she began, planting her hand firmly on his chest so he couldn't get any closer. "This wasn't… I don't…" She must have been taken off guard by the action, as this was the first time all night she'd been at a loss for words. She took a deep breath. "I'm with Minho. We've been together almost two years now."

She waited for her words to sink in. "Oh," was all Thomas managed. "Sorry. I just – you never said… and after what he did…" he stuttered.

She grabbed his hand and he tried to quell the burst of adrenaline he got from the contact. "It's okay. You didn't know –"

"Like hell it's okay!" Minho bellowed, just a few yards away. "You've been here less than a day, Greenie, and you think you can just take whatever you want?" He dragged Thomas to his feet by the collar of his shirt. "Well, you can't. She's mine," he growled.

Emily slipped in between the two of them, causing Minho to break his hold on Thomas. "Excuse me, oh great Keeper of the runners," she said, and Thomas could practically hear her eyes roll, "but the last time I checked, I did not _belong_ to anyone." The glare she gave Minho made him swallow whatever retort he'd had. "And you're right. He's only been here a day. And based on what an ass you were being last night, how the hell was he supposed to know that you're the shucking love of my life?" The question was rhetorical, so when Minho began to answer, she put her finger to his lips. "Thomas," she said, turning to him while keeping her hand over Minho's mouth, "go see Alby. You've got a lot to learn today, and the sun'll be up soon."

Thomas – more out of eagerness to obey the pretty girl than out of fear of her hulking boyfriend – trotted off to where he saw most of the Gladers gathered.

Once he was out of sight, Minho's face softened and he pursed his lips into a pout. "You let him kiss you."

"First of all, I didn't know he was going to kiss me, so it wasn't much of a decision." Minho stood as still as a statue as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "Second of all, you should know by now that you're the only one I want to kiss me." He exhaled deeply and looked down at the small girl clinging to him. Her smile was innocent, but her eyes held a challenge – if he couldn't let this go, he'd be sleeping alone again tonight.

Minho sighed and scooped her up in his arms, kissing the top of her head. "Fine. But if he makes another move on you, I'm throwing him to the grievers." She frowned at the threat – remembering the way Thomas looked at her and knowing Minho's penchant for violent solutions – but figured it was the best offer she was going to get.

She leapt gracefully out of his arms and stood on her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek. "Thank you," she said, intertwining their fingers and practically skipping to breakfast with Minho trudging in tow behind her.

Thomas watched them as they sat down to eat breakfast. He was ravenous and quickly polished off his plate, but most of the others just pushed the food around their plates, holding their heads in their hands and squinting in the early morning sunlight. To his surprise, Emily wasn't eating either.

"Not hungry?" Thomas asked, earning a glare from Minho.

She shrugged. "Must have had too much to drink," she replied. Thomas frowned. He hadn't seen her earlier in the night, but she hadn't seemed drunk and certainly didn't have any more once they started talking. He didn't press the issue, and set out to find Alby, tired of the daggers Minho was staring into his back.

After being shown all the different jobs a Glader could be assigned – and watching Emily disappear through the massive stone gateway – he easily decided that somehow, he would be a runner. With the exception of Gally, he got along well with most of the other boys. Chuck became like a little brother to him, but Newt had this way of putting him totally at ease.

Thomas was about two weeks into his trial rotations when he noticed that Emily wasn't with the other runners. He grilled Newt about it, who reluctantly informed him that Minho had been pushing her extra hard lately – possibly to punish her and make her too exhausted to spend time with Thomas. His plan had worked too well, and he was unable to rouse her from bed that morning.

Thomas tried to finish his work quickly, so maybe he could stop by and check on her, as a friend, before the runners returned. So that's how he found himself wading through the woods to find kindling and herbs while everyone else was on the other side of the Glade having a delicious-smelling meal. All but one, apparently.

He heard footsteps and cracking branches, then a thump and rustle of leaves as someone dropped to their knees. He stepped around a large tree just in time to see Emily's back arch as she heaved and coughed, expelling her lunch into a small bush. Even once her stomach was empty, she had to hold her breath every few seconds before blowing it back out again.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she was concentrating so hard on trying to quell the waves of nausea that she didn't see Thomas kneel beside her. When he brushed against her arm she jumped in surprise and he steadied her with two large hands on her petite shoulders. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," he apologized, though she was more horrified by what he'd just witnessed. "Are you alright? I heard you weren't feeling well…" he trailed off, not wanting to reveal how much he knew or how he got the information.

Emily nodded. "Yeah, I was just tired is all." Thomas's eyes darted to the soiled bush and he raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And… I wouldn't recommend the egg salad," she said with a grimace, the remnants still roiling in her stomach. Thomas still had his hands on her and she shrugged off his touch.

Being the only girl in the Glade, she was used to the looks in their eyes – the longing, the desire, the need; not for her, necessarily, but to be loved and to feel wanted. Minho had been a hard nut to crack, and she could be just as hardheaded and dysfunctional as he was, but once they had been completely open to each other – physically, emotionally – she had fallen in love with his naked soul. His lithe, powerful physique was nothing to scoff at either.

It had taken months to get close to Minho, and even now there were days he remained a mystery to her. But ever since his first night there, Thomas had been open and honest, and always seemed to find Emily when she was at her most vulnerable; a feeling she didn't particularly care for. Which is why she trudged out of the woods, not looking back at Thomas and carefully avoiding the dining hall and its nauseating scents, back to the Homestead.

He found Newt sitting by himself on a large rock, using his knife to whittle away at a piece of wood. Thomas sighed and plopped down at his feet. "Girl troubles?" Newt asked, an uncharacteristic bitterness coloring his usually genial tone.

Thomas looked down and picked at his fingernails. "She was in the woods throwing up," he explained, and Newt was instantly contrite. His expression softened and he put down the figure his was working on. "She said it was food poisoning…" he trailed off, unbelieving of the words even as he said them.

Newt slid down from his perch to join Thomas on the ground, giving his shoulder a friendly nudge. "She'll be alright, mate. Won't be done in by a little… what's Frypan serving up today?"

"Egg salad."

Newt wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I'd have likely gotten sick too," he groaned, clutching his stomach dramatically and listing to the side.

Thomas laughed and pushed him the all the way over. They were quiet for a moment before Thomas asked the question that had been plaguing him since his first night in the Glade. "Why does she love him, anyway? She could do so much better…"

"What, like with you?" Newt asked, amused.

"Maybe," he responded, narrowing his eyes. "Or you. I mean, you're considerate, and nice, and caring." Thomas was busying himself with plucking the grass beneath his fingers, so he missed the slight darkening of Newt's already sun-warmed cheeks. "All things that _he_… just… isn't. It just makes no sense to me!" he whined. Once his fingers started to get stained green, he looked up, and Newt was staring at him in contemplation. "What?" he asked defensively, ashamed at his childish outburst.

Newt rolled over and propped his long, lanky form up on one elbow. "Love isn't rational, Thomas. You can't explain it, or reason with it. It makes smart people do stupid things, and turns normal human beings absolutely bonkers." He flipped onto his stomach, resting his chin onto his folded arms. "When you live in a place like this, it seems like everything gets taken from you – safety, hope, contentment. So when somebody's been given something back, you may not understand it, but you damn well better respect it," he finished, closing his eyes and the conversation.

Thomas tried to take his words to heart, but he just couldn't make himself believe them. It sounded good in theory, but what if one man's gift was another man's pain? Whose need, then, was greater?


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas spent the next couple weeks trying to avoid Emily, which wasn't difficult since the runners spent all day in the Maze and all evening in their locked room doing who knew what. But when the loud siren rang out over the Glade – signaling the arrival of a new Greenie – Thomas knew that all the Gladers would spend the whole day together taking inventory and initiating the new guy.

The new kid – who was just Greenie until he could remember his name – was just a kid, no older than 12 or 13, and was greeted with Gally's manic mug instead of the soft, pleasant face that had been Thomas's first sight. He looked around, but she was nowhere in sight.

The boy's age didn't mean the other Gladers took it easy on him; on the contrary, they seemed to relish torturing the poor boy. When they shoved him into the ring by the bonfire, drinking and laughing, Thomas thought back to his first night there. He looked, but couldn't find her sweet face in the rowdy crowd.

Though he wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed by her absence, Thomas began to wander the Glade. He picked a few cherry tomatoes off the vine and popped them in his mouth, enjoying the juicy pop that exploded between his teeth. He wandered to the Homestead, but thought better of going inside and instead weaved through the outdoor hammocks. Emily was draped in a very uncomfortable-looking angle over the side of one of them, tossing and moaning, and breathing rapidly in the throes of a nightmare.

All other concerns pushed aside for the moment, Thomas rushed in and leaned over her. "Emily? Em – wake up!" Thomas shook her, soft at first, then with increasing urgency when her eyes didn't open. When she finally startled awake, her emerald eyes were wide and panicked, still seeing the ghosts of whatever had plagued her mind moments before. When she came back to reality and found Thomas's soft, chocolate gaze, she threw her arms around his neck and buried her head in his shoulder. "Hey, hey. It's okay. It was just a dream," he soothed.

She clutched at him until her breathing normalized, and even then she pulled away only far enough to look into his eyes. She placed her hand on his cheek and brushed a thumb across his cheekbone, sliding her fingertips around his ear. He clenched his fist at his side to keep his hand from wrapping around hers.

"Want to tell me about it?" he probed, squatting into a more comfortable position beside her.

She shook her head, but couldn't seem to stop the words from spilling out of her. "It was terrible," she began, eyes becoming unfocused and distant. "They… they cut us open. Studied our insides. Poked at our brains." She shuddered. "We were alive." Her voice quieted to a whisper. "We could feel everything…"

"Who? The grievers?" He couldn't imagine what that would feel like.

She shook her head. "No… I don't know." She took a deep breath and the fog lifted from behind her eyes. "It was just a dream?" She'd meant it to be a statement, but the lingering fear caused it to come out like a question.

"Just a dream," Thomas confirmed. She threw her legs over the side of the hammock, but her knees would not support her weight. Thomas grabbed her by the waist before she fell to the ground. "Whoa, hey, you sure you're alright?" Though he was concerned for her well-being, he couldn't help but be thrilled by their sudden closeness.

"Yeah," she said with less certainty than intended. "Did we find out who the new Greenie is yet?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

"Nah, he'd just gotten into the ring with Newt when I went to…" he didn't really know what he'd been intending to do, "…go for a walk," he finished.

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Good. Newt'll go easy on the kid," she said, satisfied with the course of events. "Shall we?" She was still clutching onto his arm for support and, despite the glare he would surely receive from Minho, she wouldn't make it back to the party without him.

"As you wish," Thomas said, giving her hand a little pat and starting toward the ruckus.

Minho was busy wrestling with Gally, if you could even call it that. It was well into the night, and each time one boy lunged for the other, he'd fall flat on the ground and trip the other one in the process. Then they'd both just lie there a little too long, laughing a little too hard, and crawl to get another drink.

Thomas poured a glass of the foul liquid for himself, and brought one back for Emily as well. She was sitting by the fire, knees pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped around her ankles, as if she was trying to collapse in on herself. "One for me and one for the lady," he said, handing her a cup and, though there was plenty of space, sitting close enough that her hip pressed against his thigh. "Thought you could use a drink," he explained, sensing that she was still rattled by the nightmare.

She swirled the liquid around in the cup before taking a tentative sip. The cup fell to the ground, contents quickly soaked up by the dry dirt, and she cupped her hand over her mouth, closing her eyes and trying to swallow back the bile that was threatening to come up her throat. Thomas quickly abandoned his own cup and started to get up and look for help, but Emily curled her small fingers around his wrist and her eyes begged him to stay. She took a few deep breaths and gulped before saying, "I'm fine. Just… haven't had any in a while. And might still be sick!" she added, when he clearly didn't buy her explanation.

"Egg salad again today?" he challenged, anticipating the gentle punch she landed on his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" she squeaked when he stood up.

"I know you're the suffer-in-silence type, but I'm the annoyingly-pushy-worrier type." She knit her brows together in confusion. "I'm just going to find Clint or Jeff. I'll be gone two minutes –"

She leapt up and grabbed his arm, roughly this time. "Thomas, I said I'm fine," she hissed, trying not to draw attention.

He wrestled his arm from her clutch, annoyed at her annoyance. He was just worried about her. "And I don't think you are. If I'm right, you need help, and if I'm wrong… you can send me to the Slicers."

She stomped her foot and looked to the sky, trying and failing to control her temper. "Damnit, Thomas, I don't need you to take care of me! I survived two and a half years on my own before you got here." Though not technically on her own; she had the other Gladers, she had Minho. "You're not a runner, you're not on the council, you're not my _boyfriend_." She took a step closer and looked up into his eyes. "You have no right to tell me what to do," she yelled unnecessarily loudly into his face.

Their spat had started to draw attention and Minho stumbled his way over. "What're you think yer –" was all he managed to slur out before Emily wrapped her arms around his neck and shoved her tongue down his throat.

"I've missed you, Minho. Can we… go to bed?" she suggested sweetly, biting her inviting lip. Thomas was all but forgotten as they giggled and groped their way back to the Homestead. What the hell had just happened? Whatever it was, he doubted it was anything Clint had a pill for.

Thomas was delighted to discover that as soon as they'd gotten to their room, Minho passed out and Emily chose to sleep under the stars. Just like that first morning, she looked surreal and almost glowed in the misty sunrise. Thomas tried to lie next to her, but she promptly stood up and stalked off in another direction.

She ignored him for a solid week before he apologized for upsetting her – though not for caring enough to be concerned – and promised not to bring it up again. And he didn't, mostly because he was unsure of what exactly had caused her erratic behavior and terrified that he'd accidentally do it again. The more time she spent with Thomas, the less time Minho spent with her. He was still jealous, still hotheaded, still acted before he thought. As Thomas and Emily's friendship grew, he noticed she was having more… incidents with Minho.

Three weeks after the new Greenie – Adam, was his name – had arrived, Minho made a mistake that would cost him more than he had to give. They were late for dinner, having been arguing for the better part of an hour, so no one was close enough to interrupt what was now a screaming match. "You don't think I see it? How he rubs your back and brings you food and gazes at you with those big doe eyes?" he fumed.

"Well shuck, Minho, I wouldn't be sore or hungry or lonely all the time if you stopped cracking the whip long enough to actually pay attention to someone other than yourself!" Minho had been working all the runners inordinately hard lately. Ever since Thomas had arrived, he felt like the one thing – person – he cared about was slipping from his grasp… and into someone else's. Running faster, harder, farther, then locking everyone in the map room and forcing them to check and re-check their findings, was his solution for staying close to her. But even that seemed to be driving her further into Thomas's arms.

"You're right, Em. I am so self-centered. In fact, I love myself – and only myself – so much, I think I'm gonna need my own room! Can't share with someone else when there's only room for me in my life." He said, dripping with sarcasm and trudging out the door without her. It was an empty threat. They'd had arguments like this before, but it was because the other needed an ultimatum before they were willing to cave at all, and usually ended in hot, passionate makeup sex.

So Minho wasn't prepared when he came back from dinner to find Emily gone, and all of her things gone with her. There wasn't much – a few clothes, a bottle of perfumed oil, her pillow – but the room felt barren and naked without them.

For the first time in a very long time, Minho felt truly alone. And he was scared. His fear quickly turned to anger and he stormed off to where he knew she'd be.

"Put them back," Minho demanded through gritted teeth.

Emily was sharing a hammock with Thomas, who somehow looked both pleased and uncomfortable. "No. You were right. I don't belong in there anymore," she countered, the implication being that she did belong there with Thomas.

"Get your stuff and go back inside!" he bellowed loud enough to shake the surrounding canopy.

"Hey, Minho, wait a minute, man," Thomas tried to interject. Minho swung around and propelled him out of the swing and to the floor.

Emily ran to his side to make sure he was okay. Minho snapped. He grabbed her by the arm and started hauling her toward his room, their room. She was struggling, but his strong hands easily pulled her along. They were halfway to their destination before he registered that she was screaming something at him.

"Minho! Stop! Minho, you're hurting me!" Her tone brought him up short; it was raw and weak and afraid. It was not the voice of the strong, independent woman he was trying so desperately to hold on to. When he looked back, the tears on her cheeks glistened in the moonlight and he felt her trembling in his grasp.

He released her, surprised at how the delicate muscles in his hand ached and horrified by the angry bruises that were already beginning to blossom along her bicep. She took a few steps back from him, eyes wide as she tried to control her ragged breaths. "Em, I –"

"Don't," she interrupted, clearing her throat. "I think it would be best for us to just… have a break from each other for a few days." Minho's heart sank, but she didn't say she was dumping his sorry ass. She wiped away her tears and straightened back up to her full height, looking like nothing had even happened.

He didn't deserve her – never deserved her – and, despite the shuckface his jealousy and insecurity had turned him into, he didn't know how to live without her. Minho stalked off to find the stash of booze and punch a few holes in the walls his newly vacated bedroom, so he didn't see what state the fight had left Emily in.

Thomas was a talker – it was how he worked through his own emotions, but Emily refused to acknowledge that it was anything she couldn't handle. They talked about things that seemed trivial now – how insects destroyed the strawberry crop, how Newt had finished carving his wooden lion, hatching a plan to make Thomas a runner. Every so often, Thomas would see her bottom lip quiver, or her eyes would become unfocused, or she'd flinch whenever he accidentally brushed against her.

Eventually her eyes drifted closed. Thomas wrapped his arms around her; at least in sleep he could give her the safe haven she refused to accept but so desperately needed. Unfortunately, even he couldn't keep the nightmares away.

A week went by and they fell into a routine. She would run, Thomas would schmooze Alby and Newt until they eventually agreed to try him out as a runner, he would bring them dinner to avoid… anyone they didn't want to see, which she would push around on her plate but never actually consume, then pretend to sleep until the sun rose.

Of course Thomas was concerned; he was always concerned. The purple crescents beneath her eyes gave away the fact that she wasn't sleeping more than an hour or two per night. She was running all day, and not eating, and the bones in her face were becoming more pronounced. He tried to talk to her, but the constant physical and emotional turmoil had taken its toll.

Emily was a mess. She couldn't seem to do anything, or be around anyone, without getting pissed off, or driven to tears, or – more often – both. She never let them spill over, though. Thomas had seen her vulnerable, but that was a weakness – a window into her dark and unsteady soul – that she refused to share.

She tried to bottle up her feelings; she used to be so good at it, but it was like her bottle had sprung a leak. She snapped at Newt, screamed at Alby, elbowed Gally in the stomach; she even slapped Thomas once. Even though she was failing, the attempt at holding it all in was manifesting itself physically. Thomas knew she was hurting, but he had no idea just how bad it was. She felt like she hadn't slept in days; she was never hungry, but when she did try to force some food down, it would come right back up again; she was shaky and confused and just wanted to feel _normal_ again.

That's when she made the mistake of looking for Minho. Emily was trying to force herself through another sleepless – or worse, horror-filled – night when she slipped from Thomas's grasp and padded over to the Homestead. She stood in the doorway of what was once her room. She could count on two hands the number of days since she'd slept in that bed, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Minho, though he now had the bed to himself, still only filled up the left half. He was a deep sleeper, and Emily fantasized that she could slip into the right side – into his warmth, into his arms – and slip out before dawn with no one the wiser. Perhaps she could finally find some rest.

Her first step caused the floorboard to squeak and Minho started awake. Emily didn't know, but he couldn't sleep without her by his side. His unguarded, half-asleep part of his brain caused him to flash a smile before the awake part reminded him that he was pissed at her. "What do you want, Em?" he croaked, running a hand along his face and scowling at the interruption to his modicum of sleep.

"I just… I thought I might…" she trailed off, but gestured in the general direction of the bed.

"Do you want to move back in?" he asked. The question sounded sleepy and casual, but Minho was wide awake and his heart was racing in anticipation and hope.

Now Emily frowned. "No," she responded before she really thought about it. She missed Minho. Missed his hands around her waist, missed waking up to the deep timbre of his voice. They still ran together, but they never spoke, barely even looked at each other, and never felt like the team they used to be.

Hurt by her immediate rejection, Minho went back on the offensive and his words came out harsher than he intended. It was Minho's way of begging, but Emily was too distraught to wade through his emotional complexities to find the kernel of truth at the center of his words. "You can't have it both ways. Either stay – for good – or get out." Another ultimatum. Hadn't he learned his lesson?

She turned on her heel and scurried back out the door, slamming it shut behind her. Even outside, Emily could hear the vague mumbling of curses and a loud crash as something was thrown out the window. Once again sleep eluded her, but the box was coming up tomorrow. At least she'd have a break from running and a new Greenie to distract everyone from their histrionics.


	3. Chapter 3

The siren rang out like it always did, but the commotion surrounding it ground to a halt when the doors swung open and the new Greenie was revealed. Another girl? Emily couldn't help the pang of jealousy she felt when the beautiful brunette was lifted from the box and Thomas's name fell from her lips. She had no claim over Thomas – they were very close now, and she knew he'd had feelings for her, but her heart still belonged to Minho. Which seemed like a particularly poor choice as of late.

The normal feast that usually followed the arrival was forgotten. The note the Greenie carried – that she was the last one – and her unconscious state had everyone one edge. The disruption, coupled with their spat the night before, had turned a usually irritable Minho downright cranky. He skulked off to another never-ending council meeting – probably to discuss the unusual turn of events.

Thomas found Emily sitting against a tree trunk picking around at her dinner plate, and plopped down beside her. "So, first day as a runner-in-training tomorrow. Got any tips?"

She nearly dropped her plate and her eyes got comically large. "They're letting you try out? Why didn't you tell me!"

Thomas shrugged, feigning ignorance. He was naturally fast, but more than that, he had convinced Newt that Emily needed a sub. They could all see that she was hanging on by a thread; Alby figured she could decide for herself when she'd had enough, but Newt knew her better. He was an impeccable listener, and, where Emily tended to repress her emotions, Thomas needed to air his out. And most of them were about Emily and her stubbornness and irrational unwillingness to let Minho go. So he and Newt had begun to meet regularly for these "therapy" sessions, though Thomas learned a lot about Newt in the process as well.

Newt had given him the go-ahead, but Minho still had the final say. He hoped that once he saw that Thomas could keep pace with the best of them, and that this was what was best for Emily – who he was certain Minho still cared about – he'd put aside his personal vendetta and do what was best for the Glade. "I guess it was my winning personality," Thomas said with pride, waggling his eyebrows. Usually this would have at least elicited a pity chuckle. "Do you think I'll be running with Minho?" he asked, both hoping to take her place and slightly terrified.

"It would be me _and_ Minho," she corrected and Thomas grimaced, "and I'd throw him to the grievers myself if he let you run with anyone else." She was missing the point, and though her words sounded fierce, she seemed distracted and disengaged.

"How about the new girl?" he began a new line of questioning, hoping to get some sort of reaction out of her. The one he got was different than the one he'd expected.

She scowled and popped a fork full of mystery meat into her mouth. "What about her?" Her normally intelligent and thought-out words were laced with a childish petulance.

Thomas was thrilled that she was finally eating. "I don't know – why do you think she's here? What did her note mean?" He began to list off the questions that had been running through his mind.

"Why does she seem to know who _you_ are?" Emily added. Thomas broke into a knowing grin. "What? What is that? Why are you smiling?" She gestured at him with her fork.

"You're jealous," he concluded. Her only response was to shovel more food in her face until she looked like a chipmunk with a cheek full of nuts. "Don't worry," Thomas assured her, trying to embarrass her enough to keep eating, but not enough to set her off. "She's not as pretty as you." He leaned over to nudge her shoulder, but was surprised to find her plate abandoned as she scurried toward the woods.

He followed after, thinking he'd upset her again needed to apologize… again. When she leaned over and threw up the contents of her stomach, he realized she probably hadn't even heard his compliment. He pulled her hair back and rubbed small circles on her back as she retched again, bracing herself against a tree for support.

When she was finished, she swiped a hand across her mouth and retreated from Thomas's comforting touch. Thomas sighed, though he was used to her reactions, and made the necessary suggestion that had caused their biggest fight several weeks ago. "Let me take you to see the Med Jacks."

"I'm fine," she insisted, narrowing her eyes and preparing for a fight. Thomas sincerely doubted that. She began to walk away and he grabbed her arm; she flinched.

He immediately released her, remembering the last time someone had grabbed her like that. "Emily –"

"I'm fine, Thomas. Just… forget about it." There was something wrong with her, but she hid it from everyone and refused to deal with whatever it was herself. She practically stumbled away from him – not to join him in his hammock that night – and he thought there was no way she should be running tomorrow. At least now he had a bargaining chip.

Just before the sun's first rays painted the sky, Thomas was surprised to see Emily stretching, preparing to run the Maze. She and Minho were about to sprint through the gate, even while the rest of the Gladers were teetering in, still half-asleep, to fix their breakfasts. Thomas pulled her to the side.

"Should you really be running today? I mean, after…" Thomas didn't know how much Minho knew, or how much she wanted him to know, so he didn't finish his sentence.

"I'm fine," she replied automatically, as if that was her pre-programmed response to any question.

Even if Minho didn't know the specifics, he'd been with her for years. He had to know something was off with her. "Minho – tell her she's –"

"You said you're fine, right?" Minho cut him off, eager to discount and overrule Thomas at any turn. Emily nodded, a little too emphatically. "See, she's fine. Now quit moving your lips and start moving those legs!"

They hadn't gone more than an hour or so before Thomas started noticing Emily's troubling symptoms. She was sweating more than usual, breathing harder, and her usually pale skin looked an unearthly shade of white. Was it like this every day? And if so, Minho either hadn't noticed, or worse, had noticed and forced her to do it anyway.

She had begun to trip over her own feet – which hadn't escaped the notice of either boy – but neither Emily nor Minho would ever admit that Thomas was right and she should have stayed back in the Glade.

"Maybe we should stop for a few minutes. Take a break," Thomas suggested.

"Hasn't been that long. I'm fine," Minho stated, as if challenging Emily to admit her weakness, her need. He knew she never would, and smiled smugly when she shook her head.

"I'm fine. Let's keep going," she managed between deep gulps of air.

"See? Said she's fine."

"She is most definitely not fine," Thomas muttered, but Minho had already started off down the next corridor. Emily wasn't recovering – Thomas could see her rapid pulse flutter against the slick skin of her neck. She stumbled back so that her shoulders were resting against the cool concrete walls of the Maze.

"Thom –" she began, eyelids drooping as she started to slide down the wall.

"Minho!" Thomas yelled, and the panic in his voice was enough to bring back the other agitated runner.

When Minho came around the corner, his eyes widened and, out of instinct, began to scan the area for threats. "What happened?" he asked, almost accusing, as he knelt down beside them.

"What happened is she never should have been out here running in the first place!" Thomas shot back. She was still awfully pale, but her heart had begun to slow and her breathing was returning to normal. "I think she passed out."

"She _fainted_?" Minho asked, incredulous. "Why?"

"I don't know. Dehydration? She hasn't been able to keep anything down for days," Thomas reasoned.

She hadn't? Why hadn't Minho realized that? Shit, this was his fault. "We've gotta get her to the Med Jacks."

"You think?" Thomas replied, words dripping with sarcasm. He'd already started trying to lift her up; his long, lanky frame made him an excellent runner, but his brute strength left something to be desired. Minho pushed him out of the way and easily lifted her into his arms. He wondered why Thomas was struggling so much – she felt feather light to him.

They made it back to the Glade quickly, but were still concerned as to why she hadn't yet woken up. The early return of the runners sent a stir through the Gladers.

"What happened?" Alby demanded, jogging to keep up with Minho's quick beeline to the infirmary.

Thomas answered, since Minho wasn't paying attention to anyone but the girl draped in his arms. "We were running. She was looking pretty tired, so we stopped to take a break. Then she just… blacked out."

"So there were no… issues between the three of you?" Alby asked, skeptical. Thomas vehemently shook his head. Though it wasn't entirely true, Alby seemed to accept his answer as the whole crowd entered the infirmary. "Alright, get her on the bed. I'll go get Clint and Jeff."

Minho was way ahead of him. He gingerly placed her body down and brushed the sweat-soaked strands of hair from her forehead, placing a tender kiss on her temple. "I'm sorry," he whispered, quiet enough that only Thomas was close enough to hear the admission.

Clint and Jeff rushed in, pushing everyone else out of the way, which probably would have earned them each a black eye from Minho if Newt hadn't put a restraining hand on his shoulder. They set to work timing her pulse, lifting her eyelids and checking pupil dilation, elevating her legs, and putting a cold cloth behind her neck.

The minutes ticked by and the silence was wearing on Minho. "Well? Why hasn't she woken up yet?" he growled.

"I think she's going to be okay," Clint concluded, unfazed by the Minho's terseness – he was probably used to it. "She might be getting sick; her body was probably just exhausted and malnourished."

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "When will she wake up," he said each word slowly, trying to sound calmer than he was.

"I don't know. The mind is a powerful thing – she wasn't getting enough rest, so her brain shut itself down and _forced_ her to rest." Clint rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "I suspect she'll wake up when she's had enough." He shrugged, and Minho stormed out of the infirmary, clearly unhappy with the vague diagnosis.

The crowd dissipated quickly after that, but Thomas lingered. He knew Minho wouldn't admit anything could be wrong, but he had to tell Clint about her other symptoms. "Clint," Thomas whispered, beckoning the boy over. "I think… I think it's more than just exhaustion."

Clint frowned. "Why? Did I miss something?"

"No, no. Not exactly. It's just – they're both so damn stubborn, neither of them will admit that something's wrong!" he sighed in exasperation.

"Thomas –" Clint grabbed his arm and waited for Thomas to look him in the eye. "What do you know?"

Thomas blew out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, you're right – she's been tired. All the time. But she also –" he hesitated, aware that these were not his secrets to tell. Clint raised his eyebrows, waiting. Thomas took a deep breath. "She can't seem to eat anything without throwing it back up. Her moods change so quickly that I can't even keep up with them all! And she just doesn't sleep, but when does, there's these really weird and vivid nightmares –" he stopped himself there, not wanting to go into details about them.

Clint didn't seem to notice his abrupt cutoff. "How long?" he asked, eyes distant as his mind combed through the medical database that was somehow magically stored in his brain.

"A few weeks?" Thomas answered, though it came out more like a question. He could only account for the week or so since she'd been staying with him, but he suspected that it had been happening since before he even came up in the box, and only now it had become so bad that she was no longer able to hide it.

Clint's eyes widened as an idea occurred to him. He walked over to Emily and scrutinized her more carefully. He sat down on the bed next to her and Thomas watched in fascination as he lifted the bottom of her shirt and pressed his fingers into her lower abdomen. When his breathing hitched, Thomas knew he'd found something.

"What? Clint, what is it?" Thomas joined him on the other side of her bed.

"I think, well, if I had to guess, I might say…" he was stammering.

"Clint!"

"She's pregnant," he finished, and the word lingered in the stunned silence that followed.

"You're sure?" Thomas insisted, barely able to fathom the implications of having a baby in such a horrible place.

"Honestly, I don't know how we could have missed it. She's gotta be out of her first trimester. Four months, maybe?" he continued, more to himself than anyone else. Thomas knit his brows in confusion; he didn't know as much about pregnancy as the Med Jack seemed to. Clint pointed at her stomach. "Look – she's already showing."

Thomas looked closer at the girl he'd come to think of as his best friend. There was an almost imperceptible bump rising between her hip bones. It looked slightly out of place on her petite frame, and Thomas thought that all it took was a Greenie feast for _him_ to look more pregnant than that. But Clint seemed sure.

They both stared at her for a few long minutes before Clint got up and started for the door. "Where are you going?" Thomas asked.

Clint sighed and rubbed a hand along his face. "To tell Alby. He should know."

Thomas leapt up and grabbed his arm. "No! You can't. At least… not yet." His eyes darted back and forth between Clint and the unconscious girl on the bed. "Please, Clint." He willed the other boy to listen to him. "At least tell _her_ before letting the whole damn Glade know."

His innocent puppy dog eyes got through to the veteran Glader. "Fine. But the minute she wakes up, she knows, then Alby, then whoever else finds out, finds out."

"What about Minho?" Thomas thought the father shouldn't have to find out at the same time as everyone else.

Clint frowned with a mixture of sympathy and sadness. "That's up to her," he said before exiting the infirmary.

Thomas couldn't imagine why Emily wouldn't tell Minho about the baby, but their relationship was tumultuous at best, bordering on unhealthy. Still, when it came down to it, they would do anything for each other, and he figured now would be no different.


	4. Chapter 4

Night fell and Thomas was still by her side. Minho dropped by several times, but seeing that his place by her side was otherwise occupied, he eventually stopped coming. He still felt responsible for her condition – he really had no idea just how responsible he was – and had other duties to attend to, so he abandoned dinner and fellowship to attempt a restless night's sleep in a bed that felt too cold and empty.

Thomas had nearly fallen asleep in his uncomfortable chair when he felt Emily stirring. He shot upright and leaned in close, waiting for her eyes to open. When they did – with a dissatisfied groan – he nearly tackled her in a huge hug.

"Thank god! You gave us quite a scare, there," he chastised her, though there was no anger behind his words.

"What happened?" she croaked, mouth dry and eyes still struggling to remain open.

Thomas grabbed the glass of water by her bed and brought it to her lips. She choked down a sip or two; once she'd gotten a taste for it, she greedily downed the whole glass. "Well, against my better judgment," despite her tiredness she managed to roll her eyes, "you went out running. It was too much for you, and you kinda… fainted."

Emily groaned, more out of embarrassment than worry for her own health. "Seriously? I've run that Maze hundreds of times. Why would it get the better of me now?" she pouted. "Am I dying or something?" She'd meant the question as a joke, but when Thomas didn't answer, her eyes popped open and she saw Thomas rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "Thomas?" she questioned, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "What's wrong?"

"Maybe Clint should –" he cut himself off when her fingers curled around his forearm. Her grasp was weak – he barely even felt the gentle pressure – and her pallor skin stood in stark contrast to his deeply tanned complexion.

"Tell me," she pleaded.

He looked deep into her eyes, trying to determine if she was strong enough yet to handle what he had to tell her. But he knew if he didn't, Clint would, and Emily would kill Thomas if she knew that he knew and didn't tell her. "Well, according to Clint, you're kinda…" her grip on his arm tightened. "Well, he thinks you're pregnant."

She ripped her hand away and covered her mouth; her eyes widened and he thought she might start crying. He wasn't prepared for the side-splitting laughter that crawled its way around her cupped hands. He was so taken off guard by her reaction that he was afraid she might be in shock.

"What? Why are you laughing?" Thomas asked, concerned for her mental stability.

She tried several times to contain herself before she finally managed to reply. "Oh, Thomas. You had me worried for a second." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "See, you actually have to have sex to get pregnant. Minho's been such a shuckface recently; we haven't been together for months!" This started off another round of hysterical laughter. When Thomas didn't join in, she playfully punched his arm. "Come on. I'm sorry I worried you, but that was damn hilarious."

"Em, listen to me. You. Are. Pregnant."

She frowned and punched his arm, harder and less playfully this time. "Stop saying that. I told you –"

"And I'm telling you – Clint is sure. Says you're probably around four months," he repeated the Med Jack's assessment, which was clearly not what she wanted to hear.

"Well, he's wrong," she countered, though she didn't offer any evidence to the contrary.

Thomas looked down at his hands as he wrung them together. "You're showing," he whispered, feeling her glare burn into the back of his skull.

"Excuse me?" she spat, now on the defensive. He reached out and traced the slight curve beneath her belly button. She swatted his hand away and pointed toward the door. "Get out," she said through clenched teeth.

"What? But –"

"OUT!" she shouted, loud enough to bring Clint jogging back through the door.

She threw herself back on the bed, covering her eyes with her arm. Clint squeezed Thomas's shoulder. "Maybe you'd better go," he urged.

Thomas took one last look at Emily. He lingered outside the door long enough to hear some of their whispered conversation.

"I don't want it. Can't you, you know… get rid of it?" The desperation and fear in Emily's voice clutched at Thomas's heart.

"I'm sorry. There are ways… but you would likely die in the process." Thomas was horrified by how casually they were discussing this.

"I don't care – just do it!" she said, a little too loudly. Then, softer, "I can't bring a child into _this_ world, Clint. I won't."

"The runners – they'll find a way out," he tried to reassure her.

"It's been three years. There is no way out," she said through clenched teeth, echoing Thomas's thoughts.

"As bad as this world is, there's no guarantee that the world beyond these walls is any better," he replied, as if the thought would be comforting. "We have food, shelter, friendship. You have Minho." Thomas didn't know exactly what Emily's relationship with Minho was at the moment, but he knew enough to determine that the sentiment was less than reassuring.

Thomas couldn't listen to anymore of their exchange. He stomped away from the infirmary and ran into the one person he didn't want to see at the moment.

"What earth-shattering disaster could have possibly made you leave my girlfriend's side?" Minho asked, bitter at having felt too guilty to take that rightful spot.

Normally Thomas would have brushed off the snide remark, but he was on edge and itching for a fight. "Is that what she is to you? Is that why you ignore her, or scream at her, or push her hard enough that she ends up in the infirmary?"

Thomas was entering dangerous territory. Minho's rage had been building for hours – days, really – and Thomas was just the person he wanted to take it out on. "And what makes a slinthead like you think he knows a damn thing about our relationship?"

Thomas licked his lips and cocked a smug half-smile. "Maybe nothing," he relented, and Minho relaxed slightly. "Except… if you two are still together, why hasn't she let you touch her in _months_?" He knew he was crossing a line, but the look on Minho's face that alternated rapidly between dumbfounded and enraged was totally worth it.

Minho pounced. Thomas was taller, but Minho was all muscle, and easily tackled him to the ground. They rolled around, each trying to gain the upper hand and getting in a few solid punches before being pulled apart by Newt and Gally.

"What are you shuckfaces doing?" Newt demanded.

"Both of you – to the cells," Gally added, shoving them toward the barred pits.

"Since when do you give the orders around here?" Minho spat, smacking the other boy's hand off of his shirt collar.

"He doesn't. But I do," Newt finished for him. "And you both need to cool off." He nodded, but Gally had already grabbed them both – a little too enthusiastically – and was dragging them to their cells.

When the doors clanged shut, Thomas could hear Minho's feet dragging in the dirt, pacing the narrow length of his cage. "Whatever you may think – I don't hate you, Minho. Really."

"Can't say the same about you," was his absent reply. He had already screwed up once by leaving Emily's side; now both he and Thomas were locked in here and she'd be left alone for hours. Could he do anything right?

"Come on, dude. Can't you put aside your irrational hatred of me for, like, two minutes?" Alby had probably already gone in to see Clint and Emily. It wouldn't be long before the whole Glade knew, and he felt that Minho should find out before that.

"It's not irrational. I see the way you look at her." The way he's always looked at her. The same way Minho looked at her.

Thomas rolled his eyes. Yes, she was beautiful, and yes, he'd kissed her that first night; but he certainly wasn't in love with her. In fact, he was starting to develop feelings for someone else, someone who was not one of the only two women in the Glade. Back then he was confused – he couldn't remember his own name, much less whether he was into girls or guys! "Whatever. I don't want to have this conversation again." Not that he wanted the conversation he was about to have either. "Look… after everybody left… Clint discovered… well, there's something you should know…" Thomas was never very good with words, but these managed to stop Minho in his tracks.

"Is there…" Minho's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Is she okay?"

"Minho, she's pregnant." Once again, the word hung in the air. He could hear Minho's breathing quicken, but he didn't speak. "I just – Alby's probably talking to them now, and I thought you had a right to know before everyone else found out."

The rest of the night passed in utter silence. Thomas tried to get Minho to talk to him, but gave up after several tries. He had no idea what was going through the other boy's head, but his own thoughts lingered on the dark conversation he'd overheard outside the infirmary.

Minho couldn't believe what Thomas had just said to him. He'd basically called Minho a pathetic excuse for a boyfriend – which he was, then scoffed at the implication that Thomas loved her – which he did. So when he said that Emily was having a baby, Minho wholeheartedly believed that he was not the father. After all – as Thomas had so indelicately pointed out – they hadn't been together for months, and she and Thomas seemed pretty damn close as of late.

Minho dropped to his knees, shaking. No griever attack had ever made him feel as weak and helpless as he did in that moment. He'd lost the one thing that made life in the Glade worth living, made the Maze worth running. He wanted to blame Thomas, or Emily, or even the damn Creators. He wanted to hate them for the unfairness of it all. In all honesty, Minho never understood why she chose to stay with a shuckface like him day after day. She could have chosen to be with anyone – Alby was so sure of himself, Newt was sensitive, even Gally had his strength – so he kept her at arm's length, steeling himself for the inevitable heartbreak that would destroy him if he didn't.

But Minho was wrong. It didn't matter how vigilant he thought he'd been. Emily had found her way into the deepest recesses of his soul, and when he began to excise the pieces of her from his own heart – crudely and with blunt force – he didn't know if he'd survive. Thomas would be better to her than he could ever be – where Minho was irritable and closed-off and always kept you guessing, Thomas was kind and open and honest. And he loved her. He would be good to her; he'd be a good… father.

Minho never cried. Not his first nights in the Glade, not when his friends died. But tonight, in the darkness and solitude of his cell, he allowed himself that one outward expression of grief. His sobs were nearly silent, and if Thomas heard anything, he didn't comment.

By the time morning broke, Minho's tears had vanished, and with them, the boy he used to be. In place of him was a bitter and angry shell of a man, unfeeling and uncaring. He would go through the motions. But he would never be the same.

When they were released, Minho trudged toward the Homestead to begin his morning routine. He ignored the pointed stares and whispers as he walked by, knowing what they meant but refusing to acknowledge their existence. So when he pulled open the door, looking forward to a little solitude and distance, he was dismayed to find Emily perched on the side of his bed.

"Minho, I… we need to talk," she began, avoiding eye contact.

He equally avoided her gaze and began lacing up his running shoes. "No, we don't. I know what you're going to say."

"You… you do?" She sounded so small, so… guilty. It reignited the flame that had burned him to ashes last night.

"Yeah. Thomas and I spent the night in the pit. Quite the chatterbox, that one," he sneered, chancing a glance back at her downcast face.

"Oh." She still wouldn't look at him. "Then you know about…"

"Yeah." He started walking toward the door and she kept pace with him.

"Minho." The way she said his name would have broken his heart if it hadn't already been demolished. There was a question in it, a longing; it was quiet and reverent, like a prayer, and she was waiting for her god to rein his judgment upon her. Minho paused, but when he didn't respond she continued, "I never wanted this to happen, but it did. I'd take it all back if I could." Her tears hadn't started to fall, but he could hear the tremor resonating behind her words. "Please look at me?" And Minho would have, but he knew that if he turned to her – saw her bottom lip quivering, cupped her chin in his calloused hand – he would never let her go. The most he could manage was a hesitation in his stride, a slight turn in her direction so that he could see her in his peripheral vision. She took what he gave her and continued, "I can't do this without you. I wouldn't want to. I love you, and –"

"Save it." The words had come out like a whip, harsher than he'd intended, and caused her to recoil as if she'd actually been struck.

"What? Minho –" Emily tried to grab his arm, but he yanked it from her grasp and spun on her.

"No. Do you have any idea how unfair it is for you to ask this of me?" Her eyes were wide and bewildered, her mouth unable to form words. "To stay with you? It's too much." Her confusion quickly morphed into an anger that seemed to rival his own.

"Too much? How the hell do you think I feel?" The tears were now brimming in her eyes, and his sick mind actually wished that they would fall, that he could cause her at least an ounce of the pain she'd inflicted upon him. "God, Minho, it's not like you're the helpless victim in this situation."

Now it was Minho's turn to be incredulous. "You think this is my fault?" he demanded, nearly dropping his backpack. "I gave you everything – made you a runner, taught you how to be strong, saved your life more times than I can count."

"Yeah, you did," she answered quietly. She bit her lip – a nervous tell that always revealed when she was feeling too open, too exposed. Tragically, they were both arguing the same point – that they meant everything to each other and each was trying to do what was best for the other – they just didn't know it.

"And this is what I get for it." Her eyes pleaded with him, but Minho was never one to take the high road. "Well screw that – I'm done. You're on your own."

She sucked in a breath. "You don't mean that." As if to confirm his intentions, the boy turned his back on her and walked toward the other Gladers. "Minho, please! Just… what am I supposed to do here?" Her voice was desperate, panicked, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Minho called over his shoulder, "Do whatever the hell you want. Go run and cry on Thomas's shoulder. Whine to Newt – he's always had a thing for you. Or throw yourself to the Grievers. I don't give a shuck."

He hadn't known she'd been right behind him until she rushed in front of him, pressing her palms over his heart to get him to pause. "Minho," she said, deep and dangerous, "I know you're angry, and scared. But that… was uncalled for." She was right – whatever pain and anger he felt at the moment would be nothing compared to how he'd feel if she was gone forever. Emily had always called him on his bullshit – it was one of the things he loved about her – but he was too proud and hurt to concede the point.

The gentle pressure she held against his chest suddenly felt powerful enough to bring him to his knees. He shook her off, snorting once like an angry bull, and sidestepped the girl he'd once given his heart to; she made no move to follow him.


	5. Chapter 5

After breakfast – and his heated exchange with Emily – Minho was running a little late, which is why, instead of being half a mile into the Maze, he was just outside the hammocks and could overhear Thomas talking to the brokenhearted girl.

"He's such an ass!" Emily cried, hugging her arms tightly around herself.

"Yeah, he certainly is," Thomas agreed. He thought there was a chance Minho would take the news badly, but this was downright ridiculous. They were just inches apart and he reached out to rub her arm affectionately. Minho would have stormed over and punched him, but it would only prove Thomas's point; plus, this was what he wanted, wasn't it? Still, it took quite the effort to restrain himself.

"I hate him! I never want to see him again," she whined. Emily threw her hands up in the air dramatically and declared, "I don't deserve this. Actually, I'm glad he's out of my life," she added, trying to force some truth behind the words. Minho flinched – he deserved that.

"I don't blame you," Thomas replied, letting her air out her frustrations. At least she wasn't bottling up her emotions.

Emily was quiet for a moment. "Then why does it hurt so much?" she whispered, voice breaking. Minho swallowed hard and he had to keep reminding himself that he was doing the right thing, for both of them.

Thomas sighed. "Because even though you hate him, you still love him." Minho's pulse sped up, while his breathing seemed to cease altogether. "And, despite the way he's been acting, he still loves you too." Thomas was actually fighting for their relationship when Minho would not. Shuck, he was a good guy.

Emily took several shallow breaths and rested her forehead in her palms. "Then why doesn't he want me?" The vulnerability in her voice washed away what was left of Minho's anger. "Why doesn't he want us?" she added, placing a hand over her midsection. That's when she finally let go of the tears she had been holding back all morning.

To Minho – for some reason – Emily sharing her tears with Thomas felt like more of a betrayal than sharing her body. For as long as she'd been in the Glade, it was an intimacy she'd shared only with him. As he watched another man's arms wrap her in the comfort that should have been his to provide, Minho realized he had deluded himself into believing a fantasy. Thomas was good for her; he was there for her when she needed him. They were gonna be one perfect, happy shuckin' family.

"Hey, you're not alone in this, alright? And he's just as much responsible for this as you are." Minho was furious at the accusation, and normally would have butted in to defend himself. But now, he decided, he was done with them, and the hole in his heart got a little wider.

Since Minho was down a runner – and felt in no mood to requisition the man who was currently comforting his girlfriend, or… former girlfriend – he jogged over to Alby. "In the mood to dust off those legs?" Minho asked as he stretched. Alby glanced once at the scene Minho had just walked away from and nodded; Minho knew he would understand. They took off through the lethal Maze that had become Minho's escape, more comfortable than the Glade and its memories and sorrows.

When the sky began to change colors, signaling the imminent closing of the gates, three pairs of runners rushed through and straight into their secret room. The fourth pair – the pair that had consumed Emily's thoughts all day – had yet to return and the sky was turning dark.

When the walls started to shift in the distance, still with no sign of their missing Glade leaders, a small crowd gathered at the gate to watch for the lost runners. Though her eyes were glued to the stone opening, Emily's hands clutched Thomas's arm so tightly that he'd probably have bruises the next day.

"They'll be here," he tried to assure her. She nodded, though the gesture was a reflex, devoid of any real conviction.

Cheers started echoing from the group when two forms appeared around the corner. Not from Emily, though – she could see that something was wrong. Minho was struggling, bearing almost entirely the weight of a semi-conscious Alby. The walls started to groan as they shifted in their nightly routine.

"They're not going to make it," Emily whispered, her hand unconsciously moving to cradle the small stomach that she refused to acknowledge. Her eyes were conflicted – normally, she wouldn't have even hesitated, but in her condition, she was slower, weaker, and would likely be more of a liability than an asset. Even knowing this – and with no regard for her own life or the one that rested just beneath her palm – her feet began to carry her forward.

She was so focused on Minho and Alby that she didn't notice Thomas's scrutinizing gaze. As soon as she took her first step, he grabbed her by both arms and shoved her to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Newt catch her elbow and help her regain her balance, as Thomas just barely squeezed through the narrow opening.

"Thomas, NOO –" Emily's cry was cut off by the definitive click of the gate locking into place. Somehow, despite facing certain death by nightmarish mechanical monsters, Minho managed to be furious at the one person who had come to help him.

"Why the hell did you do that? Now we're both dead," Minho fumed.

"You're welcome…" Thomas muttered.

"How could you do that to her?" Of course. It was always about Emily with Minho. "Shuck, Thomas. You've got a kid to think about now… how could you just –"

"Whoawhoawhoa!" Thomas shouted, cutting him off. "What? So now you're not only tossing Emily to the side, but you're pretending that you played no part whatsoever in creating that baby she's carrying?" Minho had done some unbelievably stupid and careless things, but this seemed too much even for him.

"What, because I was a terrible boyfriend? Yeah, I was! But just because I hurt her feelings one night and she ran straight into your bed does not mean –"

"Damnit, Minho, we did not sleep together!" Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers; a thought occurred to him. "Wait. Did you… do you think that's _my_ baby?" The idea sounded absolutely ridiculous to Thomas. Every minute he spent with Emily seemed to revolve around Minho. The girl was head over heels for the damn fool and he _still_ didn't believe it.

"It's not? Shuck, how many guys did she sleep with? Does she even _know_ who the father is?" Minho looked positively disgusted, and Thomas didn't hesitate in walking up and punching him square in the jaw. "Hey!" Pow. A second blow to the face.

Thomas tackled Minho to the ground and grabbed him by the collar. "You're. The. Father. Slinthead." Thomas growled, accenting each word by lifting Minho up and slamming him back down into the ground.

Minho stopped struggling and stared at Thomas, wide-eyed. "No… she… we haven't…"

"Four months, according to Clint," Thomas countered the unformed argument sputtering from his mouth.

"But… she… I… you…" Minho couldn't form a coherent thought. His mind was racing – backtracking over everything he'd seen, every conversation both heard and overheard. The more Minho thought about it, the more he realized that everything could be explained by his own complete and utter idiocy.

He felt like one of the Maze walls had just fallen on his chest. That morning, she'd assumed Minho knew he was the father; of course she did – it was obvious to her, the alternative unthinkable. She'd been asking, begging him to be there for her, telling him that she was scared and needed him to assure her that they'd get through it, together. Instead, he'd told her to throw herself to the grievers.

This was bad. Or good? Emily still loved Minho; he was going to be a father! Shit, he was going to be a father. And she hated him… because she loved him…? And… FUCK, he had broken up with her! She'd never forgive him, and shouldn't. But… she had to. He would never be able to earn it, but he could spend the rest of his life trying. For the sake of their baby. _Their_ baby. Minho didn't know much about people, and even less about kids – how the hell were they going to do this?

Minho circled through the same thought process several times, cycling through joy, panic, remorse, hope, then more panic and back again.

"…Minho?" Thomas questioned. The boy had been silent and in shock for several minutes, but they didn't have time to discuss it further – a familiar and not-too-distant whirring and buzzing was fast approaching. "We have to hide him somewhere," Thomas said, nodding toward Alby.

"Y-yeah, and then what?" Minho asked, still in a daze.

Thomas reached out to take Minho's hand with a look of determination. "Then… we run."

As long and arduous as the night was for the boys, the fear and uncertainty was downright paralyzing for Emily. The second the doors clicked shut, she collapsed in a heap on the ground. Newt dropped beside her, worried that something was wrong, that she was in pain. She was, but not the kind there was any treatment for.

"It's alright, love," he soothed, throwing an arm around her. Thomas was her best friend, Minho her boyfriend, but Newt… he was her oldest friend. The first face she'd seen when she was pulled from her dark prison, back when there were only a handful of faces to be seen; the first voice that told her everything would be alright, though they all knew it was a promise that couldn't be kept. "If anyone can survive a night in the Maze, it's them."

He continued to speak such comforts to her, deep into the night. Emily allowed him to pull her close, though she didn't lean into him the way she would have with Minho. Newt knew she wasn't interested in anyone but Minho, and it didn't matter to him because – despite what the other Gladers might think – he wasn't interested in her either. Honestly, he was more interested in her best friend – of which she was keenly aware and teased Newt constantly about. It meant that their relationship was comfortable, safe; they could both be completely themselves without risking judgment or complication.

It also meant that both their hearts were trapped within the Maze walls that night. She rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Newt. I know… I know this is hard for you too."

He kissed the top of her head. "Don't worry about that now. Just try and get some rest." She looked at him like he was mad as a stung Glader. "If not for you, then do it for me! If Minho makes it out of there and finds out I didn't take the absolute best care of his girl…" Newt made a show of shuddering dramatically. "He'd toss _me_ in the Maze!"

Newt's histrionics would have normally made Emily laugh, but his words sparked the memory of her argument with Minho that morning. He didn't love her, didn't want anything to do with her or the baby; and still she had been ready to throw herself to the Maze for him. What the hell was the matter with her? And then Thomas – the shuckfaced romantic – had to sacrifice himself in her place.

The tears that fell from the corners of her eyes seemed to be a regular occurrence now, much to Emily's embarrassment. "Hey, hey, shh… it's okay," Newt tried to soothe her, but he was taken aback by her sudden breakdown. He'd seen her pissed off, overjoyed, terrified, but never to the point of tears, and it was freaking him out.

She was crying because she was angry – at Minho, at Thomas, at herself, even at Newt for being so damn calm and understanding. And she hated crying in front of people, which in turn made her angrier, and produced more tears. She slammed her fist against the ground, several times, and screamed in frustration before pushing herself off the ground and stalking away. Her entire life felt out of her control, and the pieces that remained in her grasp she either barely recognized or desperately didn't want. Emily wiped the traitorous streaks from her nose and eyes as her feet carried her to the infirmary; she sought out Clint, and wouldn't take no for an answer this time.

Newt, either knowing she wanted to be alone or fearing another emotional outburst – probably both – let her go and waited in solitude for the sun to rise.

When the runners emerged from the Maze at sunrise, a crowd was gathered at the gate; there was one face missing, the one face Minho both dreaded and most wanted to see. In his rush to see her, he basically left Thomas to drag an unconscious Alby out alone, though Newt came to his aid quick enough. The two shared a glance, a smile, unnoticed by everyone but themselves.

When Emily was nowhere to be found, Minho stopped thinking rationally. He needed his lips on hers, his hands tangled in her golden hair; he needed to hear her say the words that would make it all real. Though he was exhausted from running all night, his need gave him the burst of adrenaline he needed to search for her.

The Glade wasn't very big, but there were many nooks and crevices in which to hide, and Minho's energy was waning quickly. He checked the infirmary – and thanked god she wasn't there – and the woods, the hammocks and dining tables. His legs could barely hold him up as he trudged, defeated, up the stairs of the Homestead.

He opened the door and froze. The room was exactly as he'd left it – clothes piled on the floor, splintered wood strewn about from where he'd punched the walls – except for one detail. A small figure was curled up on the right side of the bed, a space that had been left unoccupied since the last time Emily slept there.

She was facing towards the outside of the bed, away from the door. She must have heard him come in, but she didn't turn, didn't speak, didn't even acknowledge his presence. He approached her slowly, cautiously, squinting at her and shaking his head, like he couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or not.

Her bloodshot eyes followed Minho's movements as he knelt on the floor in front of her. He reached out his hand, hesitating and drawing it back a few times before running his fingertips along her cheek. Emily's lips parted slightly in a sigh as she relished the feeling of his touch – a feeling she believed she'd never experience again.

Emily wanted nothing more to pull Minho on top of her, to smother her own doubts and fears in the strength and warmth of his embrace. In his arms, she could pretend that the world was still simple, that if you followed the rules, you'd stay alive and have a chance at happiness. Looking into his intense gaze, she could almost believe it, but then the sting of his rejection would flood back into her memory, drowning out any hope that might have remained.

Minho traced the curve of her lips with his thumb, continuing along her jaw before running his fingers around her ear and twisting them through her fine waves. She was there, everything he ever wanted, waiting for him. Minho took a deep breath. "Emily, I –" Smack. She slapped him hard enough to knock him on his ass. She rose from the bed – looking as shaky and drained as Minho felt – and shuffled toward the door.

Minho remained on the floor, either too shocked or too tired to react, when she reached the threshold and paused in her stride. "I don't forgive you," she whispered over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her.

Minho didn't know which particular transgression she still held against him – his rejection of her and their child, risking his life in the Maze, or Thomas's life, or maybe, just maybe, for actually returning from the Maze alive. It didn't matter – she couldn't hate Minho more than he hated himself at that moment – he planned to make up for them all. As Minho crawled his way back onto the bed, he settled on the side that still held her warmth, breathing in the fresh, sweet scent that had begun to fade, and falling into a deep and peaceful sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

When Emily left the Homestead, she was in bad shape. She hadn't gotten any sleep, although that wasn't unusual; she was emotionally drained and couldn't stop trembling. Minho's earlier words had wounded her to the core, and she berated herself for the relief that had washed over her when his hand brushed her face. Newt found her stumbling through the grass and put an arm around her waist, supporting most of her weight as he steered her toward the infirmary that housed her best friend and their leader.

Both Med Jacks were working when they entered the small room. The second his eyes landed on Emily, Jeff froze. She gave her head a small shake; Jeff cleared his throat and went back to assisting Clint. Newt noticed the exchange, but in that moment was more concerned for the occupants of the beds.

Alby was out cold, but Thomas – who looked even worse than Emily felt – attempted to sit up as Emily rushed over to his side; he tried to cover up the wince that followed with a grin. Her hands fluttered uselessly around all his cuts and bruises, wanting to help in some way, but not wanting her touch to cause him more pain. She stopped flailing when he took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles, flashing a genuine smile this time. "You're an idiot," she concluded, the never ending parade of tears once again began streaming from her tired eyes, accompanied by a sound that was somewhere between laughing and crying. "Don't ever leave me again."

In response, Thomas patted the top of her hand, but didn't specifically agree to the terms. He would have done the same thing again, and might have to someday. He wouldn't make a promise he couldn't keep. He inhaled in preparation of telling her about the whole mix-up with Minho, but the motion against his bruised ribs caused him to wince again, and Clint and Jeff quickly shooed Newt and Emily out of the room so the boys could rest.

Life had already gone back to business as usual for the rest of the Gladers. Frypan was cleaning up breakfast, the other three sets of runners were already well on their way, and Chuck was struggling with his arms full of firewood. The covered hammocks were blissfully unoccupied, and Emily practically collapsed into the closest one.

By the looks of her, Newt thought Emily would have been asleep the second her head hit the pillow. When he saw her shaking with soft sobs, he knelt down so that he was at eye level with her and put a steadying hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong, love? They're okay. Everything's alright now."

Emily just shook her head and cried harder. He had no idea what was wrong, but in some ways it didn't matter. Thomas would have tried to coax the information out of her. Minho would have tried to beat the information out of someone else. But because it was Newt, he simply waited for her to speak on her own; or not, if she so chose. That was what made Newt such a great person to talk to; he could give advice, or lend a sympathetic ear, or even just settle into a comfortable silence.

Her chest took in one last, shuddering breath before she spoke. "I don't want this baby, Newt," she whispered, as if confessing her sins in silent prayer. She waited for his rebuke, but none came. Newt knew both Emily and Minho quite well; they had learned to bury and suppress fear in order to survive, so when it did manifest, the force of it was unexpected and damn near overwhelming. He rested his chin in his palms and waited for her to continue. "Thomas hasn't been here long enough; he doesn't understand." She looked away then. "But Minho knows. He knows and he doesn't want it either." Emily bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

Newt frowned, which caused his slightly pursed lips to stick out. Minho was a hard-ass, but Newt didn't think him that callous. "Did he say that?" Emily nodded and curled in on herself, as if physically trying to shield herself from the emotional blow. Newt's eyes were trained on her small stomach, and the arm she had unconsciously wrapped around it. "Emily," he began, fearing the worst, "where did you go last night?"

"After I left you, I went… I went to the infirmary. I tried… I wanted to… take care of it." She pulled at a stray thread in the bedding and took another shaky breath. "Clint refused, said that I was too far along. But Jeff, he gave me something that could... you know." Emily's words had become monotone, as dull and lifeless as if she was explaining dirt to an ant.

Newt's hand tensed, and his next words were barely more than a whisper. "What happened? It's okay, you can tell me." He had no idea she felt this helpless, this trapped. He never should have let her go off on her own, but Newt had been focusing all his energy on remaining whole and un-devastated himself.

"I couldn't do it, Newt. I couldn't just –" her words were cut short as she choked on a sob. She couldn't summon the courage to drink the contents of the vial last night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw a cherubic face with blond ringlets and mischievous brown eyes. If Minho hadn't come back, hadn't made it out of the Maze… she didn't know what she would have done. But he did – he'd come back to her, and he'd looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, like he still loved her. No, she hadn't forgiven him for his harsh rejection, but she hadn't even given him the chance to ask for it… because she knew he only had to say the words and she would gladly fall back into his arms and willingly hand over the remaining pieces of her heart.

Emily didn't know what she hoped to gain from telling Newt the truth about what she'd almost done last night. Maybe she was expecting him to be furious, to pile onto the guilt and shame she already felt she deserved. Instead, he covered his hand over the one she hadn't even realized was resting on her belly. "You were doing what you thought was best." Best for whom? Emily squeezed her eyes shut, ashamed of the depth of her selfishness. "But you're having this baby now, and I swear to you – the whole bloody Glade will be here for you, alright? Even Minho." She didn't acknowledge his promise; only turned away from him and finally gave into her exhaustion.

Newt had sounded calm enough – rational and supportive – but inside, he was shaking with barely contained rage. Despite her extreme almost-actions, Newt saw the way Emily instinctively embraced the child she was carrying. He knew she was scared, but she had been scared before and her fear had never driven her to such drastic measures. The difference was that she was scared and, for the first time in her life, felt truly alone, for which Newt blamed Minho one hundred percent.

As soon as Emily's eyes drifted closed, Newt stampeded his way across the field to the Homestead, practically tearing the door off its hinges as he barreled into Minho's room. Minho – as a testament to how tired he truly was – barely pried his eyes open before muttering, "Go away, slinthead," into his pillow.

Despite his wiry frame and slight limp, Newt was a Glader, and thus had developed a certain amount of necessary strength. So when he landed a blow to Minho's already bruised jaw, it caused his lip to split, blood beading at the opening. Minho, taken off guard, flailed his arms and knocked several items off the bedside table. "What the hell, Newt?!"

Newt had always, always been the level-headed voice of reason. Minho had never seen him lay a hand on anybody that wasn't in self defense or in carrying out a punishment. Maybe he _was_ punishing Minho.

"You're a shuckin' idiot, Minho," he proclaimed, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Minho raised his eyebrows, waiting for either an explanation or another sucker punch. Newt carefully considered both options. "How could you tell her you didn't want the baby?" He had hoped Minho would deny the accusation, that Emily had misinterpreted his response. When he didn't, Newt continued. "Do you have any idea what that did to her?"

Minho had some idea; it was probably the same way he felt when he thought she was pregnant with another man's child. But he didn't believe he could have that much power over Emily; she had always been so much stronger than him. "She… I thought she was cheating on me." Newt continued to glare. "I thought Thomas was the father!" he tried to explain.

And just like that, the majority of Newt's anger left him; he smirked, genuinely amused, and his tone shifted toward its normal, more genial cadence. "And sometime soon, I will explain to you in just how many ways you were wrong about that one." Minho cocked his head, unable to comprehend the innuendo at the moment.

Minho mentally shook himself, clearing his head to steer the conversation back toward the topic at hand. "Look, I said some things I definitely shouldn't have. I know she's mad at me…"

"Oh, it goes a little beyond anger," Newt interrupted. "She's broken, Minho; confused, conflicted. She's being bombarded with so many thoughts and feelings… she can't sort out which ones are real, which ones to believe."

"What do I do, Newt?" This was way out of Minho's comfort zone.

Newt flopped back onto the bed next to Minho and crossed his hands behind his head. "How in the bloody hell am I supposed to know?" He wanted to help his friends, but they were their own worst enemies; those two could find sharks in a rain puddle.

"Newt, _please_." Minho had been wrong at every turn, and the last thing he wanted was to cause her more pain. "It's not like I can tell her how to feel." Minho wasn't sure he even knew how _he_ felt. He and Emily were so alike – bottling up their emotions and only finding the truth in the silence between words spoken in passing. It was both reassuring and frustrating as hell.

"Well, I would not open with your assumption that Thomas had impregnated her," Newt chuckled, once again amused by the idea. "But you should tell her how you feel, whatever it is – good or bad – because she's probably feeling it too, and needs to know that she's not alone in this." Newt shrugged; it's what she needed, but he suspected she was so distraught over her thoughts and actions over the past 24 hours that it would be a miracle if she actually listened to anyone.

Minho _was_ being selfish; he had been so busy sorting through his own emotions, he hadn't stopped to think about how radically Emily's life had changed, and just as rapidly. "How do you know she'll even listen to me? That she even still wants me?" He wanted nothing more than to give her what she needed, to be her anchor in the storm. But she hadn't forgiven him – didn't trust him – so why would she allow him to be the gatekeeper of her heart?

Newt let out a deep breath in one big puff. "You're the only thing she's ever wanted, Minho. Which is precisely why you don't deserve her."

Minho mulled over his words as he dampened a cloth and pressed it to his swollen face, letting out a hiss as the cool fabric brushed against his raw flesh. He scowled at the boy who'd inflicted the injury, but Newt's eyes were already drifting shut, and a soft, rhythmic wheeze escaped his mouth with every exhale.

Minho tried to go back to sleep; the precious few moments he'd gotten since sunrise were not enough to recharge his taxed system. He had abused his body past its high tolerance for exertion, and now his face began to throb in time with his aching muscles. Still, his feet carried him through the door, down the steps, across the field, and to the hammock that had been Emily's bed for too long now. Only, when he got there, she was nowhere to be found.

Newt had assumed Emily had drifted off to sleep, but it eluded her troubled mind. She needed something familiar, something she understood, something that she could accomplish without doubt or fear or remorse; she needed the Maze. She briefly wondered why the Maze – an enigma, full of unknowns and unknowables – brought her comfort, while the equally puzzling and uncertain path that had created the new life inside her brought nothing but confusion and chaos and heartache.

Emily ran, into the Maze and away from her fear. Her mind went blissfully blank, filled with nothing but the smell of the stale, moist air and the gentle thud of her feet against the soft ground. She tired quickly – much to her annoyance – and had to slow to a walk. For once, she hadn't entered the Maze looking for a way out of it, and so began to notice small details that she had missed – how perfectly the ancient stones sat side by side, row by row; how the path had been worn smooth by persistence and strength; how the ivy gripped the walls, climbing ever higher and proclaiming life in a place that seemed to demand death. As terrifying as the Maze was, it was also beautiful.

Emily reached a crossroads; she could either disappear further into the Maze – though in her present condition, might not have time to make it back before night fell – or she could head back to the Glade. If she was half the person Minho believed her to be, she would have turned around instantly; instead, she stood around in indecision for several minutes.

It wasn't until she noticed the hand she had been resting on her stomach that she realized how selfish she was being… again. She wouldn't have hesitated to risk her life for any of the other Gladers, so why should her little Greenie be any different? Emily smiled and took off in the direction of the Glade.

She was about a quarter mile from the gate when something shifted; she slowed to a walk and opened up her senses to try and decipher what her subconscious mind had already picked up on. She had been running through her and Minho's corner of the Maze, so it should have been empty. Emily stopped moving altogether and listened – the sound of another set of footsteps echoed off the oppressive walls. She whipped around in time to see another runner barreling towards her.

"B-Ben?" she asked hesitantly; seeing him in her section of the Maze felt completely incongruous, like abundant sunshine during a rainstorm. As he got closer – much too quickly – she saw the dark veins that spider webbed across his skin, indicating a recent griever sting. He wasn't in his right mind, and she was in no state to defend herself against whatever insanity he might start spewing. "Shit…" she muttered, sprinting toward the open gate.

Emily – having gotten no sleep, no food, and running for the better part of the day – was already exhausted. She was smaller and weaker, and Ben was being fueled by a post-attack adrenaline spike. He was gaining on her, and she had just inched through the gate when he tackled her to the ground with an animalistic shriek. "Damnit, Ben! Get off me!" Emily screamed, trying to dislodge herself from the boy twice her size.

"You're going to ruin EVERYTHING!" Ben raged, backhanding her across the face before pinning her arms over her head with one hand. Shuck, when did she get so damn weak?

Emily kneed him in the groin, which loosened his grip enough to allow her to roll onto her stomach, but not completely away. "Let go of me! HELP!" she yelled, words muffled by the blanket of grass smothering her face. Ben had repositioned himself so that he was straddling her hips and sitting on her back.

"I won't let you," he hissed, so close that she could feel his hot breath overwhelm her already flushed cheeks.

The fight had made Emily more annoyed than afraid; Gladers had been stung before, and it never resulted in a positive reaction. But when she felt the cool metal of his knife pressed against the side of her throat, she knew she was in trouble. "Please," she begged – to Ben, to the universe, to the damn Creators… anyone who would listen and could possibly help.

Suddenly the weight on Emily's back was lifted, though the motion caused the knife to dig into her neck; it wasn't deep, but blood still wept from the wound and collected at the collar of her shirt. There were sounds of a struggle all around her, but the blood pounded in her ears and she couldn't figure out who was doing what, who was winning, or who was even part of the fight.

Emily tried to move, to help, but she seemed frozen in place. She hadn't even realized she was shaking until a warm hand covered her shoulder and a familiar voice pierced through the paralyzing fog that kept her pinned to the ground.

"Emily? Emily, look at me, baby." Minho was shaking her gently, though with increasing urgency; worry lines creased his forehead when she didn't respond. He had been looking for her – never imagining that she would risk going into the Maze alone. When he saw her whip through the gate – faster than he'd ever seen her run – his heart raced, then stopped altogether when the other boy tackled her to the ground. Ben was no match for Minho's fury, but he was almost too late. "Please, just say something."

The damn tears started up again, before the words. Emily wanted to tell him how much she loved him, how sorry she was and how stupid she'd been, but anything that escaped from her mouth came out like a strangled moan. Minho pulled her into his lap and wrapped his strong arms around her, rocking her back and forth and kissing the top of her head. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, when she had calmed down enough to speak.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Though he was asking about her physical state, there was an implied question about their relationship.

Emily did a mental once-over. She had some cuts and bruises, she was exhausted, and still entirely petrified, but she was alive. Thanks to Minho. "I will be," she decided.

Ben would live – only because the other Gladers were able to pull Minho off of him before any real damage was done. Clint and Jeff insisted on checking Emily and Minho out, and, after only a few threats and muttered curses from Minho, simply prescribed them some time and rest. That was all he needed to scoop Emily up in his arms and carry her to the Homestead.

She had fallen asleep in his arms, so he gingerly placed her on the bed. He took a wet cloth and pressed it against her skin, wiping away the unnatural red stains and returning it to its pristine alabaster. God, she was beautiful. He brushed her long waves over her shoulder, his hand then traveling down her arm and dipping into the groove of her waist before settling over her hip. "You are my life now," he confessed, talking to both Emily and their unborn child. He was still the same person – short-tempered, cynical, jealous, selfish – but he would have to do better, be better… for them.

Minho crawled into the bed behind Emily, pulling her close against his chest and letting her head rest in the crook of his arm. He hesitated, just a moment, before draping an arm over her waist. His large hand spanned the full length of her stomach, and he was surprised to feel the small, soft swell that rose between her hip bones. Minho had memorized all of her curves long ago, but this one was new, and it fascinated him. He kept going over it, back and forth, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that there was a new person in there, just beneath his fingertips.

"I'm going to make a better life for us, I promise." Minho paused, wondering if it was a vow he could keep. Well, he would sure as hell try. "I'm going to find a way out of the Maze."


	7. Chapter 7

Emily and Minho had come to a tenuous truce. They had both decided to put aside their own feelings and do what was best for their child. For Emily, that meant switching jobs, taking it easy, and avoiding the Maze. For Minho, that meant spending the majority of his time _in_ the Maze, looking for an escape.

Over the next several weeks, Minho worked himself to the point of exhaustion. He was through the gates the moment they opened wide enough for him to squeeze through – dragging Thomas, his new running partner, in tow – and spent most nights locked in the map room, desperate to fulfill his promise.

This left Emily alone much of the time. She worked in the garden with Newt, but compared to the excitement and physical exertion required of a runner, it was rather mundane. However, today was a special occasion – it was her and Minho's three year anniversary. She doubted Minho would remember, which would make the romantic dinner she had planned all the more surprising. If she could tear him away from his work long enough to celebrate…

She had insisted Frypan teach her how to cook something amazing, but after two ruined attempts and one small brush fire, he demanded she leave the kitchen. Supplies were running low and everything had to be rationed, and her sentimentality was wasting valuable resources.

Despite the sour face she wore when she was kicked out, Emily was rather relieved to be out of there. It was hot and she'd been standing far too long. She fondly remembered the days when it was easy to not only stand all day, but to actually be _running_. But now her belly was growing larger, causing her back to ache and her feet to hurt and making her dangerously off balance and clumsy… thus the fire.

Newt found her sitting on a tree stump, scowling in the general direction of the dining hall. "Frypan kick you out?" he asked in amusement. She narrowed her eyes and nodded, but Newt knew if she'd really wanted to do it herself, no one could have stopped her. "Well, we may not be able to make a chef out of you, but perhaps a thief?"

Emily didn't know what he was talking about, but she snorted at the idea of trying to be stealthy. "Have you seen me lately, Newt? I wouldn't be able to sneak up on a blind elephant!" She tried to pass it off as a joke, but she really was getting frustrated with all the things that were steadily getting harder to do.

Newt studied her for a moment. "Too bad, then. Because I heard there was a small amount of chocolate saved away. You know, just in case…" Honestly, he didn't even know why the council decided to set aside things like that. As far as Newt was concerned, they should enjoy it while they could, live each day like it was their last… because someday it would be.

He knew he'd gotten Emily's attention when she sat up a little straighter, like she was already poised to make a break for the secret hideaway. "You know, Newt," she began, practically purring, "you've always been my favorite council leader." She smiled a mischievous, almost seductive grin, and leaned back so that her stomach stuck out further. "And, well, the baby has never had chocolate before." Emily licked her lips, remembering the last time the sweet ambrosia had graced her taste buds. She was trying to play on his sympathies, but he wondered just how far she'd go. When Newt didn't give up the location of the sweets, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "And neither has Thomas. I'm sure he'd be most apprecia-"

Emily's convincing was cut off by Newt yanking her to her feet, dragging her off to some back corner of the Glade. She chuckled in victory. The supplies were chained up in the back of the council room, where the goods could be kept dry and cool. They each took a couple squares of the chocolate… and maybe a few rolls and cheese cubes – all items that were coveted and had not been distributed since the box had stopped coming up.

Newt helped Emily set up a makeshift table in her bedroom, spreading out the impressive array of edibles. They had even absconded with candles and some fancy plates and silverware. Emily was just placing the last fork down when it dropped from her hand. Her breathing quickened and she froze in place.

"Emily, love, are you alright?" Newt asked, making his way over to her. She nodded and finished putting the utensil in its proper place, but he could see her hands shaking. "What is it? Are you ill?" Even though the morning sickness had gotten better, it didn't go away completely, and certain smells still made her nauseous. And they were certainly enveloped in a bunch of unusual aromas.

"I'm fine," she insisted, shaking off whatever fear had paralyzed her. "Minho will be back soon. Could you make sure he…?" she didn't finish the question. Newt was aware of how many nights Minho – and Thomas – spent locked in the map room. She wanted him to make sure Minho found his surprise.

"Sure thing," he replied, giving her a tentative smile. The slight tremor in her voice made Newt wary of leaving her alone. But she was right – Minho would be home soon, and those two understood each other better than they understood themselves, so he figured she'd be in safe hands. Emily sat down at her place setting and Newt gave her head a little pat as he made his way out the door.

She tried to ignore the odd feeling that twisted her insides, but when it happened again, she crawled onto the bed, their romantic dinner forgotten, and prayed that the feeling would go away.

"What's all this?" Minho asked as he entered, eyes lighting up at the delicious appetizers that peppered the table. Emily was sitting on the corner of the mattress, hunched over with her eyes closed. "Emily?" he questioned, kneeling in front of her and cupping her chin in his hand. "What's wrong? What is it?"

"Minho, I –" her explanation was cut off when she sucked in another breath, hands flying to her stomach. She was certain something was wrong and her eyes took on the glassy sheen of unshed tears.

"Let's get you to –"

"NO!" she cried, throwing herself into the middle of the bed and curling into a ball. "It's fine. I'm fine." She kept repeating the phrase, trying to convince herself more than Minho. If she went to the infirmary and they said something was wrong, it would be real; if she stayed there, she could ignore it and assume everything _was_ fine.

She was shutting down, and shutting Minho out. He didn't know what was wrong and she was starting to scare him. "Emily, I really think –"

"I said no, Minho! I just… need a minute." Emily closed her eyes and focused on breathing, slowly, in and out, one breath at a time. When she opened her eyes again, Minho was gone, and Newt and Thomas were sitting on the edge of the bed. "Where –"

"To get Clint," Newt explained. As soon as her eyes were shut, Minho had raced out the door and down the steps. He didn't want to leave her alone, and luckily Newt was talking with Thomas just outside the Homestead. He sent the two of them to watch her while he went to the infirmary to fetch a Med Jack.

"I'm fine," she pouted, sounding more stubborn than certain.

"I'm sure you are," Thomas assured her, earning a warning glare from Newt. Bad things happened all the time in the Glade, but, against all odds, Thomas was an optimist. It was why Newt had taken a shine to him initially, and what kept drawing him back. That and Thomas's long, lean body and dark, innocent eyes.

"What happened?" Clint queried, barreling through the open door with Minho hot on his heels, as he searched for signs of pain or distress.

Emily looked between Thomas and Newt, then Minho and Clint, opening and closing her mouth several times before anything came out. She didn't want to give voice to her sudden alarm, not here with all these people, not now when they were supposed to be celebrating. She pushed herself up to a seated position and sat cross-legged, letting her palms rest on her knees and keeping her head down.

"Come on, Em. Talk to us." Thomas, always wanting to talk things out.

Emily looked up at Clint and took her bottom lip between her teeth, feeling exposed and uncomfortable. "I… it's like…" she fumbled for words, frowning when she couldn't find the right ones. "Something feels weird," was her only conclusion. She looked down and picked at some lint on the sheets, embarrassed at not knowing what was going on with her own body.

"Where? What does it feel like? Does it hurt?" Clint pressed, still unsure what exactly he needed to do for her.

She shook her head. "No. Doesn't hurt." She took her hands and cupped them under her stomach, looking up at the ceiling and taking a few breaths. When she felt the odd sensation bubble up inside her again, she clamped her jaw shut – trying to keep from crying – but couldn't suppress the small whimper that passed between her lips.

"Emily, I can't help you if you don't talk to me," Clint reasoned. She shook her head, still unable to find the right words, and simply brought his hands to her stomach. His eyes narrowed, then widened in recognition and he laughed, relieved, at the light flutters and pops that danced beneath his hand.

"What is it, Clint?" Minho demanded, wondering at the Med Jack's odd reaction.

"That's the baby kicking!" he announced with another chuckle. "Perfectly normal."

Clint had already delved into a lengthy explanation about when Emily could expect to feel what, so he missed the wide-eyed expression of terror that had overtaken her face; she couldn't have looked more horrified if Clint had told her she was carrying a bouncing, baby griever. "Emily –" Minho began, but she shot out of her bedroom like it was on fire, Minho tearing after her.

Newt thanked Clint for his patience; the Med Jack just shrugged and headed back toward the infirmary. Newt sunk down onto the short side of the bed, keeping his feet on the floor but falling backward until his head landed on the mattress. Thomas mimicked the movement and lay down beside him.

"What just happened?" Thomas asked, recognizing the panicked look in his best friend's eyes. Thomas himself was tickled pink that he was there for this; he was like an overly excited puppy. "This is amazing! I mean, this is amazing, isn't it? Why aren't you smiling? What did I miss? What's wrong?" Thomas asked a dozen questions before pausing long enough for Newt to answer any of them.

Newt stared long and hard at his friend. Thomas had been there for Emily in the beginning, but ever since he became a runner, Newt had been her primary means of support. But who did Newt have to lean on? "Thomas, I am going to tell you some things. I know your natural inclination is to ask questions every five seconds, but can you please try to listen?" he begged, desperately needing to confide in someone.

Thomas nodded, ready to do his best to keep his trap shut. And so Newt told him everything – how the Glade used to be in the dark days, and thus how Emily and Minho found strength and security with each other; how many Gladers had been lost as they experimented with possible escape methods; how Newt had tried to take his own life after he lost the first boy he'd ever loved; and finally, how truly terrified Emily was of her impending motherhood, and the drastic actions she'd almost taken to mitigate it.

Thomas recalled her desperate pleas with Clint the day she'd found out about the baby. He'd assumed her reconciliation with Minho had been enough to hold her together; but, like Thomas, Minho was rarely even there in the Glade anymore, much less there for Emily. "What can we do?" Thomas finally asked after Newt had fallen silent.

"Why do people keep asking me that?" Newt sighed, rising from the bed and dusting off the lint that had collected on his trousers. "She's scared – we all are – but I think she loves that baby." Thomas smiled; he suspected the same thing. "One day she's gonna realize it. May not be until she holds that little one in her arms, but she will."

Newt sounded so sure, so calm. Thomas couldn't help but be in awe of his compassion and empathy and understanding. He jumped up and flung out his arms, wrapping Newt in a giant hug and lingering just a moment longer than necessary before pulling away. "I'm starving," Thomas said, rubbing the back of his neck and clearing his throat, slightly embarrassed. Newt grinned and gestured to the untouched buffet that was spread out before them. Thomas clutched at his heart and gasped dramatically. "We wouldn't dare!" he challenged.

Newt's eyes sparkled with excitement. "You won't be saying that once you have a taste of that chocolate."

When Emily had left the Homestead, she found herself stumbling through the woods, her once nimble feet bested by roots and shrubs, completely out of practice. She had mentally prepared herself for the worst – that something really was wrong with the baby – but was completely taken off guard by the crashing realization that the thing growing inside her was alive and well, a person in its own right. She began to hyperventilate and sat down against the nearest tree trunk, resting her sweaty forehead in her palms.

"Emily?" Minho called after her several times before following the sounds of her desperate and ragged gasps. "Emily!" he shouted, alarmed at how quickly her mental state had turned. She looked like she might pass out, and Minho was glad she was sitting down.

"I can't… I can't… I can't…" She repeated the mantra with every exhalation, which eventually just turned into uncontrollable sobs. Minho held her against him, offering whatever warmth and comfort he could against the cool night air. He thought she'd be relieved by Clint's assessment – Minho certainly was – but it seemed to be having the opposite effect and he had no idea what to say to her.

Emily chastised herself for her overreaction. Of course she knew there was a child inside her; she knew that it could move and hear and feel. She knew all these things in the most abstract sense that, aside from the slight enlargement of her midsection, were quite easy to forget about. It was how she'd gotten through the last few weeks, kept the rising panic at bay. But one tiny kick had broken the dam, and now she couldn't quell the waves of anxiety that flooded over her, threatening to drown her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, hating herself for her weakness, for her fear. Minho neither accepted nor rejected her apology; he knew it wasn't for him. Her bloodshot eyes found his and threatened to spill over again. Minho waited. "I guess it's real," she said, placing both hands over the spot where she could still feel those bubbly movements. "There's… really a baby in there."

The words should have been happy, should have reflected the unique and wonderful experience of a mother feeling a new child come alive inside her for the first time. Instead, Emily sounded resigned, burdened. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt, and suddenly she was responsible – wholly and completely – for another life; she was… someone's mother. And that scared her more than the Maze ever had.

Minho understood the fear she was experiencing, even felt it himself sometimes, but he needed her to see how much he loved her, to know that he'd be there for her and their child, to believe that they could make it through this together.

"I want to show you something," Minho said suddenly, eyes alight with anticipation. He pulled Emily to her feet and dragged her halfway across the Glade to the map room. The other runners had long since gone to bed, so the room was dark and she couldn't see anything when he opened the door. Minho flicked on the light and softly clicked the lock shut behind him.

Emily gasped and her hands flew to her mouth in surprise. In the center of the room, surrounded by years of drawings and graphs and notes, was a small hand-crafted crib. She tiptoed over to it and silent tears streaked down her face. The sides were carefully assembled with a series of notches and holes, the bottom was woven together with soft ropes, and the legs seemed to sprout from the floor, twisting along the corners in a beautiful oak tree design.

Minho shimmied up behind her and wrapped his arms across her waist. "Happy anniversary," he whispered, kissing her cheek as she ran her fingers along the smooth wooden edges.

"Minho, how did you… when…?" Her mind was still reeling from the sweet gesture.

"I had help." All the guys had pitched in – Thomas and Alby helped with construction, Newt did the artsy work, and even Chuck gathered the supplies. "I'm hoping we won't have to use it," he began, before realizing how that sounded. "B-because I'm going to find a way out!" he quickly explained, though she already knew what he meant. "But just in case, you know, I thought…"

Emily twisted around in his arms and took his face in her hands. Minho sighed and leaned his head down against hers, nuzzling her golden locks and inhaling the sweet, slightly floral scent that always surrounded her. She smelled like earth, like life; sometimes she felt like the only real thing in his world, which – paradoxically – made her presence all the more surreal.

Emily was a head shorter than him, but Minho was completely under her control. She guided him down into one of the chairs, while she remained standing. Minho let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and twisted his head in her grasp, kissing the palm of her hand. His lips nibbled at her wrist, then traveled up the length of her arm as he pulled her closer. His hands explored her waist, molded to her curves as they traveled down and sunk into the soft flesh of her thighs. "God, I've missed you," he sighed, resting his forehead against her chest. They may have occupied the same space – at least some of the time – over the past several weeks, but it hadn't felt like they were truly together.

Emily weaved her fingers through his fine, dark hair and placed a gentle kiss on the crown of his head. For a moment – just a moment – she could envision a world where they could be happy. They'd have a house in the middle of an endless field of wildflowers, with Newt and Thomas as their neighbors. Their son or daughter would grow up in a world without walls, without grievers… without fear. In that moment, imagining the future Minho was working so hard to provide, Emily could be calm; she could be free.

Suddenly she felt little champagne bubbles inside again, as if the baby was sharing in her fantasy. Emily hadn't allowed anyone but Clint to touch her stomach, and only because he had to; the motion felt too familiar, too vulnerable, too honest. But suddenly, Emily wanted to share this experience with the other person who had made it possible. She brought Minho's hand to her stomach. "The baby's kicking," she said through a fresh set of tears.

Minho drew his head back and looked up at her, then back down at her belly. He brought his face within inches of her body, as though being closer would allow him to see their child inside her. "Hey, kiddo. I'm your dad," he choked, stroking his hand back and forth in awe over the little bump beneath her belly button. He could have been content to stay there like that forever, holding his two loves in his hands.

Emily situated herself on his lap, both of their hands still resting on her little baby bump. He brushed his lips across hers, and when she deepened the kiss, he spread his other hand across her back, pulling her even closer against his muscled frame.

That night – the first in too long – they made love to each other, and Emily slept curled up in Minho's arms. He felt so solid, so real. There were so many things that still terrified her – to want, and then to lose – but the warmth and joy he enveloped her in was enough to fill her with renewed strength. Minho would redouble his efforts in the morning to get Emily and his child out of the Maze, but for now, they didn't need a way out, they just needed each other.


	8. Chapter 8

Another month had flown by – the box had still not returned with new supplies, and they were still no closer to finding a way out of the Maze. Everyone was antsy, but Minho's prolonged absence had set Emily on edge again; as her stomach grew larger, her patience grew smaller. She was teetering on the edge of another breakdown.

"Damnit, Minho, you're never here anymore." She hated how insecure and needy she sounded, but it reflected how she felt. "I thought you were going to be there for me. For us!" Emily was pacing around the porch of the Homestead, one hand on her lower back, the other supporting the underside of her considerable belly. The corner of Minho's mouth turned up at her discomfort; motherhood looked good on her, even if she was scowling at him. "What do you have to smile about?" she snapped, erasing the grin from his face and igniting his short fuse.

"Just what the hell do you think I'm doing, huh? I am killing myself every day out there trying to find a way out of this shuckin' place." Minho was exhausted, and cranky, and just wanted to go to sleep. It had rained heavily that morning, and he had reluctantly given the runners the day off. Minho had been working tirelessly to fulfill his promise; with the exception of the night the baby first kicked, this was the first extended period of time they'd had to spend together. Minho couldn't help the several times he'd nodded off in the middle of their conversation, but when she'd stormed out of their room, he managed to find the strength to follow.

"And what if there is no way out? What then, Minho?" He looked away, unable or unwilling to answer her question. She reached out and pulled his chin up so he could look into her eyes. "At what point do we say 'this is it, this is as good as it gets,' and try…" she swallowed back the tears that always seemed to be brimming just below the surface, "try to be a family?"

Minho jerked his head out of her hand. He knew he had no right to be angry with her, but she was giving voice to the fears that plagued his every waking minute. He clenched and unclenched his jaw. "I can't play house with you right now, Em, alright? I've got to get back to work." He had to find a way to get them out of there, to get them somewhere they could live safe and happy and free; that was his most important duty as a father, he rationalized.

He'd already lost too much of the day to run the Maze, but that didn't mean he couldn't review his previous work. He was halfway to the map room when he realized that his departure had been too easy; she should have put up more of a fight, piled on the guilt he so rightly deserved. He turned just in time to see Emily shuffling – more like waddling, though surprisingly quickly – through the open gates.

"Shuck…" he muttered, sprinting after her. It only took rounding a few corners for him to catch up to her. "Where do you think you're going?" he questioned, half amused, half terrified out of his mind for her.

"In case you've forgotten, I happen to know this Maze just as well as you do. And if you can't find this magical escape hole," she hissed, "perhaps I can."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. "Have you lost your mind? It's dangerous out here."

Emily yanked her arm from his grasp. "It's daytime. My biggest risk is twisting one of my ridiculously swollen ankles because I can't see where I'm stepping because of my ridiculously huge stomach!" she whined, crossing her arms – which now had to rest well above said ridiculously huge stomach.

The changes in her body had happened slowly over time, and Minho missed most of it. He was gone all day every day, and spent most nights locked up in the map room trying to coax out the secrets of the Maze. He was so desperate to carve out a path for their future, he was missing the present. He took a minute to appreciate all the changes she was going through.

Her large belly was obvious and he couldn't help but notice the swell in her breasts. But there were other, more subtle signs too. Her face was rounder and overall she just looked… softer. The lean muscles that she had cultivated over years of hard work in the Glade were still there, but she'd been forced to retire them for the last several months and they'd become less pronounced.

"What? What are you looking at?" she demanded, shifting from side to side, uncomfortable with the extra weight that altered her center of balance.

Minho didn't have time to answer before an all-too-familiar buzzing reached his ears. Shuck – since when did grievers come out during the day? He grabbed her arm and her eyes widened at whatever look he had on his face. "We need to leave. Now."

She didn't resist and allowed him to tow her along faster than she could move on her own, though not fast enough. The mechanical whirring was getting closer. They were in sight of the gates when the griever leapt down from the wall in front of them and Emily screamed. Minho pushed her to the side as the thing lunged forward.

Minho dodged underneath it and tried to draw its attention. "Hey! Over here, you fat angry slug!" He ran the other direction a ways, and the griever followed him a few steps; until it saw there was easier prey.

Emily had been attempting a silent crawl – either toward the gate or away from the griever, but succeeding in neither. She abandoned silence in favor of speed, pushing herself off the ground and making a break for it. She didn't get far before she was slammed against the wall, pinned by a giant metal claw.

"NOO!" Minho screeched, ducking a blow from one of the creature's other appendages. By then, the other Gladers had heard the commotion and gathered with weapons ready; they could see the nightmare playing out before them, but froze at the threshold that Alby had always forbidden them to cross. They stood in stunned silence, unsure what to make of a daytime attack, much less how to defend against one.

The griever lowered a blade over Emily's heart and Minho pounced. He sliced the monster's arm off with its own blade, and the inhuman cry it elicited was enough to snap the others out of their dazed hesitance. They charged, all attacking at once. The sounds of clanging metal became indistinguishable from the screams of pain, coming from both man and beast.

Minho's only concern was for the mother of his child. He slashed and thrusted, ducked and dove, all while trying to keep an eye on her. Several times a lethal instrument would inch dangerously close to her defenseless form and his heart would stop beating, but every time another Glader would throw himself in front of her and fight back the griever. He lost her a couple of times in the fray, but noticed that she was slowly, carefully making her way to the gate. Good girl.

The fight was over quickly, the griever taken apart piece by piece, struggling and slashing until the very end. They had all survived, though not without taking significant damage – both physically and psychologically. The Med Jacks had set up a makeshift ER just outside the gates. They'd taken a quick look over Emily, but she appeared fine and they had more serious wounds to tend to, so they didn't chase after her when she scurried off.

Minho tried to follow her, but Clint put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going, tough guy?" he asked.

Minho had to bite back his initial irritation. "I have to check on Emily," he said through gritted teeth as she disappeared into the Homestead.

"She looked like she got the least of it," Clint said, not without sympathy. "You, on the other hand, are a bleeding mess."

Minho looked down at himself. Shuck, Clint was right. Both arms were covered in a mixture of blood and griever goo. His leg – which had a nasty gash – was killing him and his head felt like a bongo drum. He brought his palm to his head and rubbed soothing circles into his temple, which didn't relieve the throbbing.

"I think you've got a concussion," Clint concluded. No shit. "And that leg is going to need stitches." Minho grimaced; he'd take another griever over a shuckin' needle any day. Still, the sooner this was over with, the sooner they'd release him. He looked to the darkening sky and blew out several deep breaths, trying desperately not to focus on the sharp pinpricks that meant his flesh was being sewn back together.

Clint had just finished wrapping a bandage around his thigh when the walls began to shift again. At least they wouldn't have to deal with any more grievers tonight. As soon as the fabric was tied, he hobbled off after Emily.

When he opened the door to their room, he found her perched on the end of the bed, fists clenched, with both Thomas's and Newt's arms encircling her. Shuck, did they never have anywhere better to be? Minho noted that the boys looked completely unscathed, and briefly wondered what they'd been doing during all the excitement.

"Get out, Minho," she said, refusing to look at him. That's when he noticed she was digging her nails into her palms hard enough to draw blood, and he promptly ignored her command.

He ran over to kneel in front of her. "Hey, are you alright?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Her eyes flashed to his. "Am I alright?" Her eyebrows shot up in a look of almost comical incredulity. "No, Minho, I am not alright. I can't run. I can't sleep. I am tired, and I'm… weak," she spat the word like a curse. "People could have died today. Because of me. Because for some sick reason, they think this… _thing_ inside of me is more important than their own lives!"

She was feeling frustrated, and guilty. Minho understood all too well. He reached out and squeezed her knee. "It's not a _thing_, and it is important. It's a baby. Our baby," he reminded her. In all honesty, when Minho had first began telling her how much he wanted to be a father – mostly in an attempt to quell her fears – he couldn't be sure he was telling the truth. As the weeks passed, though, and he felt the baby move, kick, respond to his voice, he really did fall in love with it.

"No, it's a parasite that neither of us wants, and it's going to get everybody killed!" Emily's worst nightmare had almost unfolded before her eyes, and – the worst part of it – she was defenseless to stop it.

Minho knew she was emotional right now, that she was scared and just trying to cope with everything, but he couldn't help his temper flare. She had just called their baby a parasite. "You don't mean that. Why would you say something like that?" She crossed her arms over her chest, a sign that she was about to shut him out again. "Please, Em. Don't do this to me. Tell me what's wrong," he begged.

"Tell me the truth, Minho – do you really want to have a baby? Here?" She knew he didn't, which was why he spent all day in the Maze. Newt and Thomas looked at Minho expectantly – like they, too, weren't sure what his answer would be. What did he have to do to convince these shuckfaces that he was freakin' happy about this?

"Well, it's not ideal, but yeah. I really do." And he meant it.

"Don't lie to me!" Emily screamed. She wasn't hearing him, and he couldn't understand why.

"Emily," Minho began, his calm voice lingering in stark contrast to her histrionics," listen to me – yes, I was scared at first. Still am. But… damnit, some days this kid is the only thing keeping me going, you know?" His voice began to rise with the depth of emotion behind his words and he took a calming breath. He was unloading on her, which was not good for either of them at the moment. He needed to keep it together. "But now? I want this, Em. I want it so bad… I mean, don't you?" Minho thought surely this was an easy question, and grew concerned when she didn't immediately agree.

Emily averted her eyes and squeezed onto Newt's hand. "I tried to get rid of it," she whispered almost inaudibly. There it was, the truth that she'd been so desperate to keep hidden, now being flung at Minho like a sharpened knife.

If her goal had been to hurt him, to burden him with a bit of the shame and resentment she usually kept locked away, then she succeeded. Minho snatched his hand away like it had been burned. "What?" he asked, sure that he'd heard her wrong.

"That night you spent in the Maze." Technically, she had never actually attempted it, but the fact that she even considered it, held the vial of poisonous herbs in her palm, caused her to hang her head in shame. "And then you had some crazy epiphany in there and came out being super-dad!" Minho could almost laugh at the thought; everyday he felt like a failure, and everyday tried to be strong and confident… for them. Minho had put all his effort into that persona, but he now realized that was the exact opposite of what she'd needed. She'd needed him to be open, vulnerable, honest; to be just as terrified and unsure as she was. And for a long time he was, but he'd pulled himself together, worked through his fears and insecurities; obviously, she hadn't. "I never wanted this, Minho. I never wanted to have a baby here." She paused, and Newt and Thomas hugged her tighter. Neither looked surprised at the news – the little bastards must have already known. "When I… I couldn't do it myself, I begged Clint to take it out of me; he said it was too risky, that I'd probably die too."

Minho shook his head, unable to comprehend what she was saying. "Y-you were scared. I wasn't there for you back then…" he drifted off, recalling that just hours before, she had once again accused him of that particular crime. "You're not… you don't still…" he couldn't finish the question.

"I am a prisoner in my own body, Minho! I have no control over my life. When people look at me, they don't see _me_ anymore."

It wasn't an answer, and yet it was. Emily had worn this shameful truth as a veil for so long that Minho believed it was obscuring her true feelings, even from herself. He stood up. "You're wrong. I know you, and I know you love this baby," he said definitively. "But you're also right. People don't just see you anymore." He leaned in close; he was at eye level with her, but she still wouldn't meet his gaze. "They see a future that doesn't involve the Maze, or the Glade, or the Creators, or the grievers; when they look at you, they see hope." Minho stood back up to his full height and loomed over her. "So yeah, people risked their lives for you today. And they would do it again in a second, because that baby," he pointed to her rounded stomach, "isn't just yours, or mine; it's all of ours," he concluded, spinning his pointed finger in a circle that encompassed the whole Glade. "So stop acting like some wounded animal; this is not something that's _happening to you_… it may very well be the only good thing to come out of this shuckin' place!"

Minho knew he was being a hypocrite; he hadn't known at first if he'd wanted the baby either, and he wasn't even the one who had to sacrifice his work and his body for it. Still, he'd seen the way her arms curled naturally and instinctually around her growing stomach, how she ate more vegetables even though she hated them, how she absently hummed soft lullabies as she worked in the garden. He noticed these things, but she hadn't, and the fact that she still believed she didn't want his child was too much for him.

Minho could hear Thomas and Newt whispering something as he stomped out the door, but he didn't bother to listen; he'd said his peace, and she'd either believe him, or she woudn't. It was time for the evening meal, and Minho hoped that stuffing his face with greasy food would fill the pit that had formed in his stomach; he hoped that he hadn't been too harsh with the woman he adored; he hoped that, one way or another, he could give his child a future that was safe and happy and free; but mostly, he just hoped Emily would join him for dinner.


	9. Chapter 9

About halfway into dinner, Emily stormed into the dining hall. She refused to speak to Minho, or even look at him, but the righteous anger that had replaced her self-pity brought a little color back to her cheeks. Minho thought she was the most beautifully furious goddess he could imagine.

Emily slammed her dishes down and squeezed in next to him at the end of the table, and couldn't fathom why he was grinning so widely at her plate. She picked at the healthy rabbit food she'd forced herself to spoon onto her tray; she was never a big fan of carrots, but at the moment they were so offensive as to make her queasy. She forced down a couple bites before closing her eyes and trying to take deep breaths through her nose.

Minho noticed her distress and his smug lips turned down into a frown. "Are you feeling sick?" She wanted to still be mad at him, to snap at him for being an overprotective ass, but another nauseating wave of scents accosted her nose and she simply nodded, now also feeling lightheaded. His palm curled around the back of her neck and it felt cool and comforting against her flushed skin. When she felt like she could open her eyes without throwing up or passing out – which must have taken longer than it should have – she found his warm, dark gaze lingering on her with concern. "Let's get you out of here, alright?"

Emily nodded again and Minho walked around to help her get to her feet, never breaking physical contact. She was about to make some remark about how unfair it was that she couldn't even get out of a chair without help anymore when a sharp pain ripped through her abdomen. She gasped, and would have crumpled to the ground if Minho hadn't already had his arms around her.

"Hey, whoa, what is it? What's wrong?" Minho looked into her agonized face, and when she couldn't answer, tried to locate the source of her pain; he froze when he noticed her hand clutching her stomach. "Is it –"

His question was cut off when Emily cried out, piercing and primal, her arms shaking as she tried to brace herself against her knees. It was like her insides were being squeezed and twisted and rearranged like a balloon animal, and for several long moments she couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't think. When the pain dulled to a pulsing throb, she tried to straighten back up using Minho – who looked as weak and stricken as she felt – for support. Her hands left a trail of bright red on his shoulder. "Minho –" she began, looking at the blood curiously, like she couldn't comprehend what it meant.

Minho, on the other hand, was all too aware of what was happening. "Get the Med Jacks!" he shouted to no one in particular, at which point the pins must have clicked into place and Emily's expression morphed from confusion to horror. A small crowd had gathered around them, but they all seemed paralyzed and unsure of what to do. He growled when no one moved, gathering her up in his arms and racing toward the infirmary.

Another crippling wave of agony twisted in her gut and Emily screamed into his chest, gathering his shirt into her tightly balled fists. "It's my fault. I did this," she whispered through panted breaths, not loosening her death grip on the fabric. Minho was focusing all his energy on running and not panicking. He didn't trust himself to speak. "I didn't want it. I didn't want our baby and now it's gone."

Minho's breathing quickened, having nothing to do with the physical effort he was exerting. It was dark, so he couldn't see the slick trail they were leaving in their wake, but Minho could feel the warm, coppery liquid blooming on his clothes, dripping down his arms, so fast that Emily almost slipped out of his grasp. If he thought too hard about it, he would gag. Minho ran faster.

He practically shattered the door to the infirmary, scaring Clint half to death. When Clint saw what Minho had in his arms, he might have scared the other half. Clint took a second to get his bearings before barking orders. "Put her on the bed. Jeff – get some towels and water." He grabbed a few tools that were sitting on the table just as Minho had laid her down.

Clint pushed up her knees and was getting a front row seat to her most private areas, which normally would have earned him a kick to the face, but Emily didn't even seem to notice the boy poking around in her. Worry lines creased the Med Jack's forehead. "When was the last time you felt the baby move?" he asked.

She was staring at the ceiling, emotionless. Her voice was as dead as her eyes. "This morning. Before –" Shuck. The baby hadn't moved since the griever attack. Why hadn't she told anyone? Maybe she would have – at least Thomas and Newt – if Minho hadn't barged in and gone all tough love on her.

Clint pulled up her shirt and inhaled sharply at the dark black and blue spots pooling beneath her stretched skin. Minho glanced at the bruises, but couldn't keep his eyes there. Clint couldn't look away; he pulled her shirt back down and ran his hands through his hair.

Minho was impatient as he waited for the Med Jack to take action. "Well… do something!" he demanded.

Clint grabbed him by the elbow and took him to the side, eyes still darting back to his patient. "Minho, listen to me. There's not a lot I can do here. I can't perform surgery – we don't have the equipment or the drugs; she would never survive." Minho shuddered at the idea – if the cut on Minho's leg sent his stomach rolling… "And even if we got the baby out, it's much too early; it wouldn't survive either."

Minho tensed up every single one of his muscles, shaking with the effort of trying to contain his rage and terror. "Then what exactly _can_ we do?" he practically screamed.

Clint rubbed his chin and blew out a breath. "Emily should be fine. She's strong, and healthy. I was right before – she didn't sustain much damage during the attack."

Minho's eyes were wide with a hint of madness. "…and the baby?" he growled when there was no continuation.

Clint squeezed his shoulder, and Minho wanted nothing more than to rip his sympathetic arm right out of its socket. "We'll just have to wait and see."

Minho hated dealing in uncertainties, and he couldn't stand to be in that room any longer. He knew it was selfish, knew that he shouldn't leave her. But he couldn't help it when his legs sprinted out the door, carrying the rest of his body with them and practically tackling Thomas and Newt to the ground. They took one look at his crimson-hewn appearance and rushed into the room he'd just been so desperate to leave. Shuck, he was a terrible person.

He hadn't known where he was going until he dove into the lake. He watched in fascination as the blood was lifted from his body, absorbed and dissipated by the water, as if it had never existed. Soon, his olive skin turned red from Minho's constant scrubbing – where he could still feel the offending stains – his clothes nearly worn almost threadbare for the same reason. He swam lap after lap, desperate to escape this nightmare; he could make the journey a thousand times, but he'd still end up exactly where he began and no further from his problems.

When his arms began to burn and his legs could no longer keep him afloat, Minho crawled his way to the shore and put on his damp clothes. The stars were beautiful that night, and he lay by the water staring at them until they danced and drew pictures before his tired eyes. The air immediately surrounding him was displaced as someone plopped down beside him.

A comfortable silence settled over them and it was several minutes before Newt spoke. "Thomas is with her now. She won't speak to him; to anyone, really." Minho focused so intently on the lights in the sky that he thought he might go cross-eyed. "It's because she doesn't need anyone. No one but you," he said pointedly. Not accusing, just stating a fact.

"Newt, I can't," Minho started, his voice almost breaking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I can't lose them."

"You know, you're strong, Minho." Minho shook his head; he was hanging on by a thread. "Yeah, you are. But she's stronger. Which is why – if she loses this baby – you'll put your head down and power through it like you always do. It would be hard, but you'd survive." Newt turned to look at him with his large, blue eyes. "But she won't."

Minho propped himself up on his elbows, suddenly alarmed. "What… what do you mean?"

"You've been gone a lot – I know why, and I don't blame you," he added quickly, after receiving a glare from his conversation partner. "But it means Thomas and I… well, we've kind of been picking up the slack." Newt sighed and ran a hand through his curly mop. "She's terrified, Minho. Every day. She's afraid we'll be trapped here forever. Afraid you'll leave her again. Afraid that we'll run out of food, or our houses will burn, or the Creators will just randomly decide to pull the plug on this whole bloody experiment." Newt grabbed Minho's arm, but he already had his absolute and full attention. "But most of all, more than anything… she's afraid of being a mother."

"But… why?" Minho couldn't understand. All those other things sounded much more horrifying to him than taking care of an infant.

"For this very reason! She feels responsible for every single person in this Glade. How do you think she feels knowing that she can't protect the life she created, even for the nine months while it's still inside her, even before it enters _this_ world?"

Minho thought about it, all of it. Their lives there were far from easy; there was constant uncertainty, fear, death, anger. It was a dangerous place; they didn't know how they got there, or how they would get out, and the Maze took its toll on each of them. But there were good things too – friendship, loyalty, strength, honor, love. This was the only life Minho was given, the only life he'd ever known, and he might as well make it worth living.

Newt took a breath, about to continue his little speech, but Minho stood up. "I'm not so afraid of losing something that I'm not gonna try and have it." He stalked through the woods and over to the infirmary, where a light still flickered inside.

Thomas stood at the door, watching Emily, biting his nails with worry lines engraving his forehead. Minho tried to brush off his instinctual irritation with the boy.

"Let me see her."

Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin. When he collected himself, he looked pissed, though his innocent, puppy-like features kept him from ever looking truly menacing. "Seriously? After that crap you pulled back there?" he accused. Minho deserved it, but he didn't care; he was on a mission. "She won't listen to anything you have to say, and I don't think –"

"I don't give a shit what you think." Minho knew her better than anyone; he was there for her in her first days in the Glade. She had been angry, and terrified, and completely overwhelmed – much like she was now. He knew what she needed, and it wasn't words or time or solitude. "Either you step aside and let me through that door, or I reserve a spot for you in the bed next to her, and go in anyway."

Thomas frowned, but got out of the way of his fuming friend. Minho glared at him for good measure before stepping over the threshold.

Emily was curled up as tightly into a ball as she could get with her rounded stomach in the way. Her once sharp and mischievous eyes were blank and distant; she didn't even look up as Minho walked in. In the early days, they'd had no shelter, no beds, no privacy. Nothing to bear the weight of their inescapable and oppressive riddle of an existence except the soft grass and each other.

So much had changed since then, but the motions he went through next were quite familiar. Minho walked around the bed and climbed in behind her. He shimmied up against her, pressing his chest against her back, and enveloped her in his muscled arms. He didn't know what he expected her to do – pull away, scream, beat the living shit out of him – but she responded to him the same way she always had.

She nestled herself into all his crevices, tucking her head under his chin and entangling their legs. He swept his arm over her waist, pausing briefly to explore the unfamiliar swell of her abdomen, and cradled her trembling arm in the crook of his elbow. Their fingers intertwined – whether out of habit or need, neither knew – and once again Minho was struck by just how perfectly their bodies fit together.

In that moment – finally, truly together with no secrets between them – she was not afraid to completely fall apart, because she knew that when she had the strength to once again put herself back together, she could find all the pieces waiting in the unfailing arms of the man that she loved.

Though hearing her sobs and feeling her tears rain down on their locked hands broke something inside him too, Minho was strong for her. He held her as she shook; they were all trapped in this nightmare, but she felt alone and trapped in her own personal maze within the Maze. He couldn't even begin to imagine what she was going through.

Eventually, they both fell into a restless sleep. When he awoke – which could have been minutes or days later – he was on his back with his arm draped across Emily, who had turned to face him and was laying half on top of him. She had a leg draped across him and her large, soft stomach rested against his lean, taught one. Without thinking, he took his free hand and rested it against her belly.

He glanced down and realized that Emily was awake – and staring at him with such intensity that he froze. Her eyes were red-rimmed and cautious, but almost hopeful. "Sing for me?" she questioned, voice weak and groggy.

Minho ran his fingers through her hair and blew out a deep breath as she laid her head back down on his chest, knowing that he would oblige. He was a terrible singer, but his words were special, words that had surpassed the veil of forgetting. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine," he began, his own tears threatening to spill over and join the ones with which she was staining his shirt. "You make me happy when skies are grey." He began rubbing little circles into her stomach, putting as much love and conviction behind the words as he felt. "You'll never know, dear, how much I love you." Minho paused and his hand stilled. He took a shaky breath, and the last line came out more like a whispered prayer, "Please don't take my sunshine away."

They stayed like that for a while, finding comfort in each other's arms. Minho couldn't repeat the words again, but continued humming the little chorus until his throat was raw. He was sure Emily had fallen back asleep until she gasped and shot up to a seated position.

"What? Em, what is it?" Minho asked, searching for signs of distress. Her eyes were bewildered and unfocused, looking either far into the distance or deep within herself. He couldn't tell if she was in pain and several tense seconds passed; she inhaled sharply again, clasping her hands over her mouth as if stifling a scream. Silent tears streaked down her cheeks and Minho was starting to panic. "Emily, please!" He didn't know what to do, or even what was wrong.

She finally locked into his desperate gaze, and, as if in answer to his pleas, took his hand and guided it beneath her belly button. When he didn't react, she pressed his palm deeper into her flesh. She still couldn't form words, but raised her eyebrows in expectation. His heart raced in anticipation at the implication of the gesture.

At first, Minho didn't feel anything and he knit his brows together in concentration. Then, so quick and so light that he thought he could've imagine it, there was a little thump against his fingertips. "CLINT!" he bellowed, bringing the boy sprinting through the door, along with half the Glade.

The Med Jack took in the scene before him and rushed over to the bed. "What happened? Are you bleeding again? Are you in pain?"

Emily shook her head vehemently. "I… I…" Minho was making similar sputtering attempts at speech, but neither of them seemed able to get out a coherent thought, and Clint was getting worried.

Thomas rushed over and knelt down beside the bed. "Please, Em. Tell us what's going on."

Emily's gaze fell on each of the boys gathered in the room. Her heart swelled at the looks they were giving her; Minho was right, this baby was all of theirs. She looked back at Clint. "The baby's kicking," she choked out between sobs, breaking into a huge grin.

"What?" everyone in the room seemed to ask in unison. She nodded, tears flowing freely. Suddenly, Minho wasn't afraid of sharing this intimacy with the other Gladers; they were his family, too, and the two most important people in his life would not be alive right now without them.

Minho replaced the hand he had on her stomach with Clint's, allowing him to feel the gentle movements. "Well I'll be damned," he said, surprised. The Med Jack really must not have been holding out much hope for the child, and Minho hugged his treasures even tighter.

A chorus of cheers erupted through the infirmary, calling into attendance whichever Gladers were not already there. They planned a huge feast that night to celebrate, but Minho and Emily chose to remain tucked away in bed together. Minho thought he could be content if the last thing he ever saw was the way Emily looked when she spoke to their child. She was radiant, gentle, and her smile glowed with a sense of peace and purpose.

Minho hadn't even realized he was holding his breath until she leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on his lips. "Thank you," she whispered, resting her forehead against his. "For knowing me better than I know myself," she answered the question that hadn't even yet formed in his mind.

Emily lay back down on the bed, pulling Minho with her. They fell into the same positions they had taken just the night before – her back against his chest, their legs intertwined – only this time felt completely different. Instead of breaking into a thousand pieces, they seemed to meld together into one being, greater and stronger than anything they could ever be individually.

His hand rested against the small flutter in her stomach that remained a constant comfort. She covered his hand with hers and sighed contentedly. For once, something precious had been given to them instead of taken away. And Minho was going to fight like hell to keep it that way, to get them out of the Maze.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint kept Emily on strict bedrest in the infirmary for a full week, and Minho remained by her side. Neither were accustomed to such long stretches of inactivity, so even by the third day, they were both practically bouncing in their seats. Emily insisted that it was okay for Minho to leave – that at least one of them should enjoy their freedom – but he refused. Being cooped up was driving him crazy, but if Minho gone into the Maze, he'd drive himself even crazier by worrying about her.

At the end of the week, Clint came in to do his final assessment – to determine if they could finally go home. "Let's see how we're doing here," he mumbled, more to himself than to the expectant parents. He walked over and lifted up Emily's shirt. She squeezed Minho's hand – still slightly uncomfortable with the intimate contact – as Clint poked and pressed and prodded around her ever-growing stomach.

"Well?" Emily demanded impatiently. Her bruises had faded, and a slight discoloration and mild tenderness were the only signs that there was ever a problem.

"Looks good to me," Clint concluded with a nod. "Just entering your third trimester, I'd say. Baby's probably the size of, what, an eggplant? Or maybe a squash…" Both Emily and Minho rolled their eyes as he rambled. Clint could never just give a short answer. "…these last few months are when it really starts to grow, so…"

"Excuse me?" Emily interrupted, propping herself up on her elbows. "Are you saying that I'm going to get bigger than _this_?" she questioned incredulously, scooping her hands around her generous belly. Lying down, it really did look like a rather ridiculous-sized mound protruding from her small body; Minho patted it affectionately, but Emily swatted his hand away and wrinkled her nose.

"Oh yes. Much bigger," Clint said, not taking the hint that this would be horrible news.

Emily flopped back down onto the bed with a dramatic huff and Minho chuckled. "I think it's cute," he purred into her ear, grinning wider. Even though he didn't like seeing her uncomfortable or unhappy, it did greatly decrease her willingness and opportunity to do something reckless or irresponsible, which would greatly increased Minho's comfort level while in the Maze.

"You won't think so when I'm out to here," she challenged, extending her hands another two feet out from her stomach.

"Mmm… more like this," Clint corrected, pushing her hands – only slightly – closer to her body, eliciting another moan of displeasure from Emily.

Minho pecked her on the cheek and turned to Clint. "So she's alright? We can go?" he asked, eager to whisk Emily back to the comfort of their bedroom, away from the building that housed some of their most terrifying and life-altering memories.

"I suppose, but –" Minho had already scooped her up in his arms and was halfway out the door before Clint could finish calling after them.

At the sudden weightlessness, Emily's eyes popped open in surprise; when they landed on her her baby bump, she sighed. "How can you even _carry_ me like this?" she whined, though she made no move to extricate herself from his grasp. In response, Minho made a show of huffing and puffing and stumbling around through the Glade. She slapped him gently on the shoulder and relaxed her head against him – feeling, more so than hearing, his deep laugh echo through his strong chest as he straightened back up to his normal, easy stride.

When they reached the Homestead, Minho placed her easily on the bed and enjoyed listening to Emily's sigh of pleasure as she settled down into the familiar material. When she didn't feel the bed dip beside her, she opened her eyes and found Minho standing beside her with a pensive look on his face. She grabbed his hand and interlaced their fingers, emerald eyes wide with an unasked question.

He brought her hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on each of her knuckles, then twisting it around to leave a trail of kisses across her palm and down to the inside of her wrist. Emily brushed the back of her fingers along his well-defined cheekbone before cupping his face in her soft hand; Minho covered her hand with his own, leaned into her touch, and smiled.

"I love you," he said. "And having you in my arms will never do anything but _lighten_ my load, alright?" Emily simply nodded. She had never heard Minho be so open, so vulnerable, and she didn't want to ruin the moment with her tears… or by saying something completely cheesy. "Okay then," Minho nodded, satisfied that she had understood, that she – and their child – would always be a blessing, and never a burden.

Instead of answering with words, Emily pulled Minho over top of her on the bed. He settled himself between her bent knees, planting his hands on either side of her narrow shoulders and holding himself up a safe distance from her healing bruises. She tugged at the collar of his shirt, desperate to bring his lips to hers.

"Ah, ah," he chastised, "you're barely out of the infirmary. Wouldn't want to do anything that might hurt the baby," he teased, sensing her desire and need.

Emily frowned and bit her lip. "Please," she begged, barely a whisper.

"I suppose there is _something_ I could do," he suggested, waggling his eyebrows. "But you're going to have to promise to lie still." She nodded eagerly and clutched at the bedsheets as his head dipped down between her thighs. Minho took his time exploring her hypersensitized body – delighting in the discovery of endless new ways to torture her to the peak of pleasure, and causing her to scream out his name as her body rode out the resulting shockwaves.

After months of constant anxiety, Emily passed out, looser than a bowl full of pudding in Minho's arms. She fell asleep wearing a smile, but even it couldn't match the one Minho wore. He was pretty damn proud of the work he did that night, and he was pretty sure the whole shuckin' Glade knew it too.

The next few weeks passed in blissful uneventfulness – a rare unoccurrence in a place like the Glade. Minho would run the Maze, write down his findings in the map room, then be done in time for dinner… and dessert. They weren't any closer to finding their new lives, but they started to become pretty comfortable with their current ones.

As promised, every day Emily was getting even rounder, and every day it got harder for her to roll out of bed on her own. She refused to admit this, of course, and insisted on doing so herself – with the added benefit of not having to wake up with Minho before the sun rose.

Around midday, Alby came and knocked on her door. He chuckled when Emily didn't wake up, at least not until the smell of freshly made stew he was carrying wafted to her nose. Her hair was all knotted on one side, and as she stretched her arms over her head in attempt to wake up a little more, Alby noticed that she was wearing Minho's shirt – inside out, and with only one arm that actually made it into the sleeve hole.

"I was going to offer you some food – seeing as how you slept through breakfast, and are currently missing lunch – but it seems as though you might be plenty… _satisfied_," Alby said, the last word coming out as a suggestive drawl.

"I happen to have a very healthy _appetite_," she continued the innuendo, smirking. Emily held out her hands, eager to receive the tasty meal he had delivered to her. "Mmm," she sighed, spooning some of the warm broth down her throat.

"I'm going to have to set a curfew or issue a noise complaint or something, the way you two keep going at it," her leader chastised, hoping to embarrass her. Instead, she slurped down another spoonful and smiled – a little too widely – with pride. "What, are you going for twins or something?"

Emily practically choked on the bite she was eating; Alby slapped her on the back a few times, grinning in victory. "I'm pretty sure that's not how it works," she sputtered after the coughing fit ended. She knew it wasn't, but the idea was still enough to make her shudder. One baby was plenty, thank you.

"Honestly, I don't know how Minho has the energy," Alby went on, shaking his head. "Thomas is _damn_ fast; I couldn't have lasted another week running all over that shuckin' Maze!" He emphasized this fact by rubbing his palms deeply into the tops of his thighs, which were still killing him after such an unfamiliarly high volume of repetitive movement.

"You're getting soft, Alby," she teased, though the words came out muffled, having had to reach his ears by working their way around the massive amount of food that was stuffed in her mouth.

"I'm not the only one," he parried, pointing a finger at her expanding midsection and staring pointedly at her puffed out cheeks, which would put a chipmunk to shame.

Emily swallowed enough to stick her tongue out at him, then shoveled another spoonful of the thick soup into her mouth. "Oh my god, this is amazing!" she moaned, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

"Careful, now," Alby warned. "Minho's a jealous guy – and if he overheard the sounds you were just making…" he trailed off, shaking his head and making his way back toward the door.

"If this soup could do half the things Minho can with his tongue, his ass would be out the door in a second!" she called after him, earning a disgusted snort from halfway down the hall.

Emily guzzled down the rest of the stew with zeal and glee before beginning the herculean task of actually rising from the bed. She half-rolled a few times, gaining some momentum, before reaching one foot down to the floor; she slid the other foot across the bed and down to meet it, then paused to rest for a second before twisting around and using her arms to leverage her upper body away from the mattress. When Minho had asked – much to her annoyance – why the simple sequence appeared so difficult, Emily equated it to trying spin around and do push-ups on a balance beam while blindfolded.

Once she was vertical, she adjusted Minho's t-shirt on her body; the top still hung loosely around her petite shoulders and the sleeves reached to her elbows. What used to be swimming on her now strained tightly against the widest part of her protruding belly; at least it was long enough to stretch to the bottom of the offending bump.

"Alright, kid," Emily sighed, stroking her hand across the stretched fabric, "guess we'd better make ourselves useful."

Apparently growing a new human was exhausting, because – despite the inordinate amount of sleep Emily was getting, and the huge meal she'd just consumed – even a walk across the Glade to the garden winded her. Newt was out planting the tomato seeds left over from dinner the night before – they were still growing enough food to support themselves, but he wanted to make sure it stayed that way. The early Gladers knew all too well how ugly things could get, how easily brothers could turn on each other, when only apparent options were to kill or be killed. His slight limp was a testament to that fact.

"Hey, Newt. Need some help?" Emily asked, one hand cradling the underside of her stomach, the other supporting her strained lower back. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm not an invalid, damnit! I can…" she glanced around for a job that required neither bending over nor standing too long. Finding none, Newt cocked a half grin in her direction and she stuck out her bottom lip. "Alright, fine. Help me down – I can at least scoot along the ground and pull up some weeds."

Newt jumped up and grabbed Emily's arms, allowing her to sort of squat low to the ground until her butt was close enough to plop the rest of the way down into the freshly turned dirt. Newt had to stifle a laugh – in the past, Emily had always been so graceful and light on her feet – but completely lost it when she toppled over onto her side, her narrow hips unable to balance against the downward momentum of her large midsection.

"Everyone thinks it's _sooo_ damn funny," Emily mumbled, waving off Newt's offer of assistance; he was, after all, still shaking with laughter. "The runner can't even _sit_ on her own anymore," she hissed, yanking out small tufts of weeds with unnecessary violence. The baby issued a rather heavy kick against the wall of Emily's stomach. "That's right, little one," she said, patting the spot affectionately. "You kick your uncle Newt's ass for makin' fun of your mother."

Newt had stopped laughing, and his already large eyes got even wider as he watched her – she had called him uncle Newt. He'd always considered Emily family, but never really expected that she felt the same way; of course, like Minho, she was never one to actually _express_ how she felt, or – god forbid – even say the words. He rather liked the new moniker.

When Emily looked back up at her oldest friend, she blushed – not out of embarrassment, exactly, but she did feel a little silly being caught talking to her child like it was just another person in the field with them. Newt swallowed a few times and his hands fiddled with the edges of the trowel he was holding when a thought occurred to her.

"Do you… would you want to…?" Emily finished the question by pointing to the spot on her belly where the baby was kicking.

"Really?" Newt asked, surprised that she would offer. She thought about it for a second, then nodded; he was uncle Newt, after all.

Newt sat down next to Emily, crossing his legs and placing the tool and few seeds he had in his hands to the side. She guided his hand to the upper left side of her stomach, and his long fingers stretched all the way to her waist. They waited a few long seconds, but nothing happened.

"I don't feel anything," he said, unable to hide his disappointment.

"He was just kicking a second ago," she replied, frowning.

"He?" Newt inquired.

Emily shrugged. "With the right hook this kid's got on him, I reckon it's got to be a miniature Minho in there," she said, and grimaced – both at the memory of her vital organs being used as punching bags, and at the idea of possibly having _two_ Minhos to deal with. Of course, she doubted dealing with a pint-sized Emily would be any picnic either. She and Minho might be in trouble…

Newt laughed, picturing a newborn with muscles like a brick wall and wearing Minho's signature scowl. Just then, as if on cue, a little thumpthumpthump pounded against Newt's palm. "Ah! Aha! Ha! I felt it!" he exclaimed, jumping to his knees and leaning in closer, now resting both hands on her stomach.

"I guess he likes your laugh," Emily speculated, relishing the pure joy and wonderment on Newt's face – the possible terrors of raising a stubborn, short-tempered, hyperactive, emotionally-stunted toddler temporarily forgotten. It had been a long time since she'd seen Newt get that excited about anything. He laughed again, and was rewarded with another series of kicks against her abdominal wall.

The sweet moment was cut short when Emily caught something moving swiftly out of the corner of her eye. She whipped her head around; it was still hours before the gates were supposed to close, so when Thomas sprinted into the Glade from the North corner of the Maze – alone – Emily's heart leapt into her chest. Thomas was exhausted and sweaty and… bloody?... but he still managed to reach Emily and Newt before he even finished heaving her up off the ground.

As her blood pressure skyrocketed and she began to feel lightheaded, Emily clutched at Thomas's arm. "Thomas, what –"

"Get Alby. And Gally. And Clint and Jeff," he instructed Newt.

"Thomas, please," Emily tried again to get his attention, but the two boys had already started off in the direction of the other Gladers.

"I had to leave him," Thomas continued, though Emily was struggling to hear their conversation – they were moving much faster than she was, than she could, and no one was bothering to take the time to fill her in on the details. She was only picking up bits and pieces. "…bad, Newt. Came out of…"

"Thomas, stop!" she pleaded, barely able to hear over the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears, but he didn't even pause in his stride. She shuffled a little faster until she picked up the thread again.

"…deep. There were two…" That was all Thomas got out before they were out of earshot again. Damnit. She was never going to get the full story this way.

"WHERE IS HE!" Emily screeched, bringing the boys to a halt just as they had begun to gather the other necessary parties. The Glade was quiet as Thomas walked up to her, slowly, and put his hands under her elbows, as if preparing to support her if she collapsed. "Where's Minho?" she asked again, barely audible even in the dense silence; all the power was gone from her voice, and her whole body trembled in anticipation and fear.

Thomas sighed and swiped at the tears Emily hadn't even realized were streaming down her face. "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay," he assured her, staring into her wide green eyes and willing them to see the truth his words. Her pale fingers dug deeply into the soiled flesh of his arm and he blew out a deep breath. "Emily," he began, cautious, "Minho's been stung."


	11. Chapter 11

Everyone was waiting for Emily to react – to scream, or cry, or pass out, or punch somebody. Even Thomas was holding his normally hyperactive tongue. Her mind furiously worked through all the implications of Thomas's words: Minho had been stung by a griever. He was still in the Maze. He was alone. And there was nothing Emily could do to help him.

"Go," she whispered, eyes finally returning to Thomas's. The word was all it took to spring everyone into action. A party of six of their strongest and fastest took off through the gate. Even though he was hurt and weak, Thomas managed to lead the pack by a sizeable distance. It was already well into the afternoon; depending on how deep into the Maze Minho was, they might not even have time to get there and back before dark. And Minho would be dead weight – even with six pairs of helping hands, their return wouldn't be nearly as quick as the first leg. And this was all assuming that another griever hadn't already come along and finished the job.

Newt, who had stayed behind to maintain order in the ensuing chaos – and perhaps to keep an eye on the unbalanced girl they'd left behind – slung an arm around Emily's shoulder. "How is it that we're the ones who always end up stuck on this side of the wall, waiting with bated breath for the return of our loved ones?" He asked, only half-kidding. "Couple of drama queens, if you ask me," he joked, letting out a mirthless laugh.

Emily spun in his grasp and circled her arms around his waist, pulling herself tight up against him. Newt hesitated a moment – taken off guard by the sudden closeness – before wrapping his arms around her shoulders, drawing soothing lines up and down her back with his fingertips. "Hush, now. It's alright. Minho would survive anything for you."

"It's not just survival I'm worried about," she mumbled into his chest. Yes, they had a serum that could heal the body of griever poison, but it could never truly repair the mind. Whatever the toxin did to them – their memories, their nightmares – left them forever changed. A kind and gentle boy could become paranoid and violent; someone good-natured and honest might turn cold and untrusting. "Newt, what if he's… different?"

"He might be a little confused at first, but Emily… he'll still be Minho." He didn't know what exactly she was asking, but he was certain that no matter what weird klunk the poison was doing to Minho's brain, nothing would ever change how he felt about Emily.

Emily nodded into his chest, but it was an empty gesture. She kept picturing the way Ben's feral eyes bore into her before he attacked, the mercilessness with which he had attempted to take her life, the way – even now – he sneered at her when they crossed paths.

A loud crash rung out through the Glade as three boys – in the middle of a spontaneous brawl – slammed into a stack of freshly washed dishes. Frypan was rolling up his sleeves, getting ready to knock some sense and discipline into the unlucky trio, and Newt cursed under his breath. "Sorry, love. Duty calls," he groaned, giving Emily's cheek a little peck before storming over toward the dining hall.

There was no sense in standing there for hours, waiting on pins and needles. Emily needed something to do – a distraction. Running used to clear her mind, but to her now disproportionate body and easily expended energy reserves, the activity seemed frivolous and wasteful.

She could wait in the infirmary – no doubt they would bring Minho there when (she refused to think _if_) they arrived – but the small shack held so many painful memories already. She could go to the Homestead and soak up the small reflections of her missing love, but in his absence they would only bring misery.

Emily found herself wandering the woods until she came upon the place they buried their dead. Dozens of names – far too many – were carved in memoriam on the stone wall. She ran her fingers along the crude markings until finally they found a blank space, and she dared to wonder whose name would fill it next.

The trees immediately surrounding the area were fuller, healthier, having been vitalized by the rich material being absorbed by their roots. To some, this might be comforting, this circle of life; but the trees – and, by extension, the entirety of their cruel prison – were feeding off the ones she loved, made stronger by her grief and loss and pain. Emily resented them. She traipsed back out of the forest, purposefully plucking leaves and snapping branches as she went.

Though the sky hadn't begun to change colors, the sun was already partially obscured by the high walls of the Maze by the time Thomas led the team to where Minho had been stung. When they turned the last corner, everyone ground to a halt. There was a pool of darkened earth in the center of the path, but no body in sight.

"Is Minho… did he…?" Alby swallowed and tried to verbalize the questions on everyone's minds.

Thomas examined the scene. It was very similar to the one he had left, minus the unconscious runner. "I don't think it was grievers."

"But… the blood," one of the other boys commented.

"That was there before," Thomas explained with a grimace. It wasn't just Minho's blood that stained the ground. "I don't understand. What could have happened?" If the grievers had found him, Thomas was sure the surroundings would be much more… grisly.

"The poison affects different people differently," Jeff explained. Though he was the less experienced medic, Thomas had brought him along because he was much faster than Clint. "Some people, just knocks 'em out. Others… well, you remember what happened to Ben," he finished, looking down at the ground.

Ben had been like a rabid animal, half crazed with hallucinogenic nightmares. After Minho had beaten him unconscious, he was given the serum and recovered. Every so often, Thomas still noticed a feral glint in his eye, like at any moment he could snap; Thomas gave him a wide berth.

"So, if Minho's not unconscious, or dead, and the grievers didn't get him…" Alby trailed off, working through the possible scenarios.

"Shuck," Thomas muttered, tearing off back in the direction of the Glade. Minho was a beast by nature, fueled by innate power and rage; Thomas couldn't even imagine how terrifying he would be hopped up on griever juice. He pushed his already burning legs even faster.

Emily emerged from the woods, turning to give a swift kick to a tree stump for good measure. When she pivoted back around, she gasped in surprise. Standing, not twenty feet away from her, was the man whose name she had feared, just moments ago, she'd have to engrave into the cemetery walls. She took a step forward – her body quicker to react than her mind – before registering his uncomfortable stance, his strained expression.

On some level, Minho knew he was looking at someone he loved. The only thing that kept him from separating her head from her body was that initial instinct that told him to protect, not to destroy. She hadn't seen him, and he easily could have overtaken her. His consciousness was flooded with horrors – sterile rooms and failed experiments, friends that were enemies and enemies that were gods. His mind screamed at him to attack, insisting that everyone and everything in this place was a lie, a threat, an abomination, and he wanted nothing more than to tear it apart piece by piece. His head was warring with his heart, and his body shook as it attempted to reconcile the conflicting desires.

Emily wanted to believe that Minho would never hurt her, that there was no reason to fear him. She was rooted in place, working through a similar internal struggle, both desperately wanting to throw her arms around him and sensing the need to flee as fast as her feet could carry her.

A panicked thump beat frantically inside her womb, and Emily took an involuntary step back, the safety of her child trumping anything else she might be feeling. Her foot landed on the ground and caused a twig to snap, along with any control Minho had been clinging to. She could see the shift in his eyes, could feel when man became animal, when was overtaken by instinct. He was predator, she was prey.

Minho launched himself at Emily, closing the distance in two impossible strides. She dodged to the side and Minho slammed into a tree with enough force to snap the trunk in half. Instead of slowing him down, the evasion seemed to fuel Minho's fire. He scurried up a thicker tree and danced from branch to branch, matching in the air Emily's pace on the ground.

She wasn't running toward safety – no such place existed for her at the moment – only away from Minho. Debris was raining down around her from thick branches straining to hold up the enormous mass that catapulted from them. Emily made a hard right away from the tree line, hoping to gain some distance in the delay it would take Minho to climb back down.

Instead, he somersaulted off the branch, flipping in midair and landing directly in front of Emily. Normally she could have ducked and rolled to the side, continuing on her path without losing any speed. She couldn't do that now, but also didn't have enough room to stop, and her forward momentum caused her to plow directly into Minho; it was like hitting a brick wall.

Minho didn't even budge, but spun into the impact, grabbing Emily by the collar and slamming her onto the ground. "You did this!" he bellowed, pinning her arms above her head with one of his massive hands.

"No!" she cried. "Minho, please! It's me. Please, come back to me," Emily begged, though there was no hint of the man she loved behind the wild eyes of the creature on top of her.

Minho backhanded her across the face, reddening her cheek and causing her lip to split open. "Quiet, traitor," he hissed, closing his other hand around her throat and cutting off her air. Emily writhed in his grasp, coughing and kicking, but his grip never loosened. Her lungs burned and spots danced in front of her eyes as the oxygen quickly dissipated through her rapidly pulsing arteries.

"Jesus, Minho!" Newt exclaimed, though it came out as more of a question; he knew rationally that Minho would never be suffocating the love of his life, but that was what was unfolding – rapidly – right before his eyes. "HELP! Everybody!" Newt shouted, and it resonated across the Glade.

It would take the others precious seconds to get there – time that Emily didn't have. Minho was going to kill her. Newt grabbed one of his massive arms and pulled. It was enough to get Minho to release his hold on Emily's arms, but in the process Newt got flung to the side. Emily used her newly freed fingers to pry Minho's hands away from her throat enough to take a few ragged gasps, but he soon had control of her once again.

"Damnit, Minho, you're going to kill her!" Newt yelled. Minho either couldn't hear, or didn't care. "And your baby, Minho. What about him?" The mention of his child was not enough to get Minho to let up, but he hesitated, and the pause was long enough to allow a horde of Gladers to arrive.

It took no less than nine people to hold Minho down – two for each limb and one sitting on his lower back. Even then it was a struggle to contain him long enough for Clint to administer the griever serum. The effect was immediate; Minho's body went slack and his eyes dulled to a tame dark chocolate, but his breathing was still labored.

As soon as Minho looked under control, Clint rushed over to Emily, who was still on the ground sputtering and rasping. Newt knelt next to her, staring with concern at her injuries, but uncertain how to help.

"Emily, look at me," Clint instructed, and she did as she was told. "Good. Now I want you to take deep, controlled breaths through your mouth," he said, imitating how she should breathe and then continuing the practice along with her. It was several long inhalations before she could finally take a breath without choking, but slumped in relief as soon as she did, the panic subsiding. "Now, I want you to lie still, but tell me if anything hurts. Does anything feel broken? Cracked?"

Emily took a deep breath, but winced as her rib cage expanded. She gently twisted and stretched, testing out muscle and bone. "Ribs. Wrist. Skull," she informed the Med Jack, voice shaking. "Don't think anything's broken though."

Clint's hands made their way around her bruised body, closely testing each of the areas she'd identified. He tightened a compression wrap around her wrist and put an ointment over various open wounds, leaving the rest to heal with time. "How about the little one?" he asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

Emily's eyes shifted toward the subdued Minho. He was fading into unconsciousness as his mind and body fought to rid itself of the poison that had overtaken it, but an unmistakable veil of pain and regret radiated from his very core and pierced through his groggy features. Minho would never be able to forgive himself. Emily glanced away, unsure that she would ever be able to forgive him either.

"I think he's okay," Emily said, placing her uninjured hand over the spot she could still feel the baby kicking furiously. Even in his unthinking assault, it seemed Minho managed to unconsciously avoid harming their child. It was little consolation, but at least that particular nightmare would not plague his unconscious mind as his world finally went black. "Better than the kidney he's trying to punch a hole through," she continued with a laugh, which morphed into a gasp and then a coughing fit, which in turn aggravated her bruised ribs.

"Easy there," Clint warned as Emily squeezed her eyes shut and attempted to control her breathing using the technique Clint had modeled for her. He smiled when he felt the strong thump against his palm on her unscathed abdomen. "So you think it's a boy?" the Med Jack mused.

Emily shrugged, then hissed as a jarring pain radiated from her shoulder. "Don't really know, but it's better than 'it'," she explained as Clint tested the mobility in her arm.

"Well I think it's a girl," Newt chimed in, excited to finally be able to participate in some way. There were some grunts of agreement among the other boys. "See? Only a kid that takes after her mum could be stubborn enough to survive in the Glade," he said, winking.

Clint frowned. "I still think you should take it easy for a while. I'm sure Newt won't mind taking over your garden duties for a few days?" He said it like a question, but meant it more as a command.

"Not a problem, love," Newt said, patting Emily's good arm affectionately. "The fruits need to be handled with care, and you've got about as much delicacy as a slicer with a grudge," he finished, laughing at his own joke. Emily tried to laugh, but the motion was too much and started another painful coughing fit.

"Alright, alright, enough," Clint determined. "My patients need their rest." Four boys began to haul Minho's now completely limp, heavy frame toward the infirmary. "Let me know if anything changes, alright? Anything," he said, serious eyes boring deeply into Emily's. She nodded, though her most dangerous wounds were not ones the Med Jack could heal, and Clint jogged after the group.

Emily was still on the ground, Newt sitting cross-legged beside her; they were finally alone. She wanted to cry, but crying hurt. She wanted to forget, but she would forever see Minho's haunted eyes. She wanted to be strong, but fear made her weak.

"He's going to be different now," Newt finally spoke. Emily clenched her jaw and nodded – they both were. Newt brushed the hair from her bruised cheek, and a single tear fell from the corner of her eye and disappeared onto the ground. "But I meant what I said before. He still loves you. And the baby." And that was probably the only reason the two of them were still alive.

Emily finally let go of a torrent of sobs, which wracked her already aching body; the pain they inflicted was nothing compared to the emotional agony that fueled them. Even if the love remained, the trust between Emily and Minho was gone. Rebuilding that trust – if it was even possible – would take time and energy, but they were on the clock and both so very, very tired.

Had they been fighting a battle that was already lost? Predetermined by the Creators to eradicate any joy, any hope, any peace – and only delaying the inevitable, bloody end? The movement in her abdomen that had slowed to a gentle flutter reminded Emily that no, this could not be all there was; that somewhere outside the Glade, outside the walls of the Maze, there was a place where the game was not rigged, where the players could set their own rules. There had to be. She was betting their lives on it.


	12. Chapter 12

As desperate as Thomas was to return to the Maze, to warn the other Gladers of the potential danger, he could only move so quickly. He was the only official runner in the bunch, and the others who had risked their own safety to rescue Minho would surely get lost in the Maze without his guidance.

"Come ON!" he urged, calling over his shoulder to the group that huffed and staggered in an attempt to keep up with his rapid clip.

Thomas must have pushed the others harder than he thought – they had made even better time on the way back, and there was even still a bit of time before the gates would close. Most of the boys collapsed as soon as they stepped foot into the safety of the Glade – though at the moment, Thomas wasn't sure just how safe it really was – while Thomas and Alby spotted a crowd around the infirmary and raced over to see what the commotion was about.

Thomas had half-expected to see Emily lying in there, and was almost relieved when he saw Minho passed out in one of the beds.

"He came back?" Alby asked and Clint nodded. "And… he's alright?"

Clint sighed and rubbed at the worry lines etched in his forehead. "It's complicated. When we found him… well, let's just say I've never seen the poison have quite that much of an effect on anyone before."

Thomas looked his friend over. Minho was covered in cuts and abrasions – some that he had borne witness to, and others that were new – and the obvious puncture in his side where the griever had injected him with the maddening venom. Most of his wounds were defensive, but there were some – like the swollen, cracked knuckles on his right hand, or the shallow scratches on his face and arms – that indicated he'd been the aggressor in a fight.

"Who?" Thomas asked. "Who found him?" When no one answered right away, his heart began to thump rapidly in his chest. He noted two faces in particular that were conspicuously absent from the crowd.

"Somebody answer him!" Alby demanded, seemingly as impatient as Thomas to sort out the details of what happened in their absence.

"He tried to kill her," one of the boys behind him spoke, and Thomas whipped around to face him. He was just a kid – younger than Chuck, even – and his eyes were glazed and haunted. Thomas vaguely recalled a conversation with him where he stated with absolute certainty that he'd be a runner one day. With the way he was staring at the man he used to idolize – with fear, confusion, anger, accusation – Thomas doubted he would hold onto that dream much longer.

"Tried to…" Alby repeated, inferring that Minho had not been successful.

Of course it had been Emily. It was always Emily. And even though he hated himself for it, Thomas could not help the overwhelming relief that Newt had not been the one to fall victim to Minho's lethal pursuits. He wasn't sure which friend he was looking for as he waded through the crowd and out of the stifling shack, but as it turned out, he didn't need to decide. He found Newt sitting on the ground beside Emily. When he came upon them, Thomas cursed loudly.

"Shuck, Emily. What the hell did he do to you?" Thomas asked, though he wasn't sure how detailed of an account either of them would be able to handle. Her neck was blossoming with angry red welts; her lip was bleeding and one eye had started to swell shut; a small wheezing sound escaped her mouth on every exhale and the majority of her skin was covered in a rainbow of colors that didn't include a healthy pink tone.

Instead of answering, she just patted a spot on the ground next to her, beckoning him to join them. Thomas glanced at Newt as he took a seat, giving him a once-over; Newt smiled warmly in response before Thomas diverted his eyes back to Emily.

Newt filled him in on whatever details he knew – Emily still hadn't spoken about the specifics of the attack, but Newt had seen enough to know in general what had happened – while Emily hummed softly, gently stroking her fingertips up and down the curve of her belly.

"So… you're sure the baby's okay?" Thomas inquired, remembering the awful incident they'd had just weeks earlier.

Emily shrugged, then winced, rolling her shoulder around until it settled back into a tolerable position. "As sure as we can be. And I'm not going to the infirmary," she added when she saw the beginnings of a concerned protest from Thomas. "I just… I can't," she finished, turning away from him.

Thomas and Newt exchanged silent glances – an argument between allowing Emily to do what was best for herself mentally and forcing her to do what was best for her physically. "Let's get you home so you can rest," Newt suggested, clearly having won the unspoken battle.

"But we're staying with you," Thomas added, not willing to offer complete surrender. He was still rightfully concerned, and wanted to be there in case anything happened. The fact that he'd also volunteered Newt to stay the night with them was just a bonus.

Newt narrowed his eyes at Thomas, but simply cocked a half-grin and shook his head, giving in to the precaution. Emily was lost in her own thoughts, barely even registering the boys' conversation around her, and allowing herself to be pulled from the ground and led back to the familiar entrance to the room she shared with Minho.

She knew it wasn't Minho who had hurt her, not really; but she could still feel his hands around her throat, taste her own blood on her lips, see his wild eyes hungry for her death. Emily crawled into the center of the bed, surrounded and supported on either side by her best friends, but even they were not enough to keep the nightmares away.

Emily had no intention of going to see Minho, but when she awoke from a particularly horrid dream in the middle of the night and found Thomas and Newt – despite their best intentions of comforting _her_, ending up spooning each other – found herself padding down the hall and out the door. The sun wasn't up yet, so not even Frypan or the runners were beginning to stir.

She hadn't even really realized where she was going until she was standing in the doorway of the infirmary, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Minho's chest in deep sleep. Jeff, who must have been working on a particularly boring assignment from Clint, was passed out over a pile of books at his desk.

Minho looked as terrible as Emily felt – bruises and scrapes over every visible inch of him, and face contorted into a permanent grimace. She reached out and brushed her fingertips over his swollen knuckles, feeling a harmonic twinge in her cheek where the coloring exactly matched the pattern of his fist. At the contact, Minho startled awake, unclenching his hand enough to shackle her forearm in an iron grip, pulling her nearly on top of him and staring at her with eyes that were still in the throes of a nightmare.

Emily tried not to panic and overcame the self-preservative instinct to recoil. She took a deep breath and placed her hand over his heart, which was as erratic and violent as his dark brown eyes. "Let go of me," she commanded, the attempted authority in her voice overshadowing the timidity and fear.

The light of awareness sparked behind Minho's eyes, veiled by a horror greater than those of his dreams. He threw her arm out of his grasp and she hissed at the wrench that twisted her shoulder. There was a part of Minho that wanted to apologize to the girl he loved, the girl that had been battered and broken by his own hands, the girl that had risked everything for him time and time again and always ended up losing. That part, however, was silenced by the rage and confusion that taunted his thoughts and memories.

"Move over," Emily demanded, placing her hands on her hips in impatience when he didn't comply.

Minho was conflicted. His mind still screamed at him – she was one of them, the enemy, she helped put him in this place – but his body was already shifting to the side of the bed. "Get out," he said, gruff and brusque.

"Make me," she challenged, scooting in beside him.

"I don't want you here," Minho insisted, half of him believing it to be true.

"I don't care," Emily responded, unfazed by his tone. And she really didn't. "I had a nightmare, and the only way I'll get any sleep is with you." She conveniently didn't mention that Minho was likely the _cause_ of her terrors, or the fact that she had staunchly refused to even see him just hours earlier. Minho was stiff as a board behind her, careful not to touch her, not moving, but breathing hard – angry at her, angry at himself, afraid of what he might do. "It's not about us right now, it's about what's best for the baby. You said you'd be there for him…"

"Her," Minho corrected, before he could stop himself. He didn't know why he thought it was a girl – maybe he just hoped that the kid would be all Emily. She reached behind her and pulled his arm around her so that his hand rested on her stomach. He felt a flurry of little kicks and almost smiled, surprised that the unborn child seemed to be the only thing that didn't enrage him. He guessed it was because it hadn't existed before the Glade – before this experiment and whatever games the Creators were playing with their brains – and thus the memories remained untarnished by the griever poison.

It took all of Minho's mental energy to remain there the whole night – both boiling with anger of unknown cause at the woman that took refuge in his arms, and desperate to connect with the child she carried, the only remnant of sanity and comfort available to him. His thoughts kept swirling into pain and darkness, a thread of a thought – a secret – nagging at the back of his mind, beckoning him to follow it down a path that could have led anywhere.

When the first rays of light broke, he pushed Emily out of his grasp and tentatively stretched his muscles. Minho didn't expressly get permission to get back to his runner duties so quickly, but he didn't care; the Maze was calling to him, and he needed it. "Don't do that again," he warned Emily before sprinting out of the crude building.

Despite his warning, Emily still went to the infirmary every night – if he woke up, Minho would yell or throw things to try and get her to leave. He tried to extract himself from this routine; he began to fall asleep, alone, in a different place every night, but every morning he woke up with his arms full and heart empty. They spent the next several weeks like that – neither willing to face the other in the harsh light of day, even after the physical wounds had healed, and neither able to weather the nights alone.

Minho became more and more distant. Though she forced her way into his bed at night, Emily couldn't force him to talk to her. Minho fancied himself the victim, and lashed out at anyone who tried to tell him otherwise. Thomas tried to continue running the Maze with him, but Minho kept wandering off the normal route, sometimes circling back to the same spot three or four times, sometimes just stopping to stare endlessly at a dead end, as if seeing through a doorway that wasn't there. Then he would shake his head, curse loudly, and continue along the path his feet had been trained to instinctively follow.

One time, Thomas had dared to ask what Minho was doing and nearly got his head taken off. Minho had easily slammed his body against the wall, pinning him against the rough stone, and hissed, "Shut it, slinthead. The Maze can hear you." His dark eyes were suspicious as they darted back and forth, as if checking to see if the Maze was eavesdropping. Then he leaned in close and whispered in Thomas's ear. "We were wrong. We've only been looking in places that can be seen." Minho stepped back, eyes widening as if this should have been some magic epiphany, opening Thomas's ignorant eyes to all the secrets of the Maze.

Instead, Thomas feared Minho really had lost his marbles. He continued – for the most part – to run with him, if only to make sure he didn't do anything too crazy. Minho felt he was finally seeing things clearly for the first time. Well, perhaps not clearly, but at least accurately. It was as if the Glade had been a dream and only the Maze was real, but just seen out of the corner or his eye – like a word on the tip of his tongue, or a picture he was looking at too closely – tangible and concrete, but just out of reach. It was both driving and incredibly frustrating.

Emily was holding up rather well, considering the circumstances. Alby had given her some time off – at seven months pregnant, there were very few jobs she could do effectively anyway – which she used to try and get ready for the baby. She wasn't a carpenter or a craftsman, so other than cleaning and organizing what little items they had, she felt completely useless.

Newt and Thomas, who had become her right and left hands in Minho's absence, came upon Emily trying – and failing miserably – to fashion cloth diapers out of some of her old shirts that had no chance of ever fitting her again.

"Come now, love. You're needed in the Homestead," Newt said, reaching out a hand to pull her to her feet.

"What? Why?" Emily asked, not eager to put forth the considerable effort it would take to stand up if it wasn't absolutely necessary.

"Alby's got some work for you to do," Thomas explained. "Didn't think just because you'd put on a few pounds that you'd get off that easy, did you?" he asked. He was too busy laughing at his own joke that he didn't see the arm she swung out, ramming into the back of his knees and causing them to buckle. He crashed to the ground and she shuffled over, crawling on top of him until he let out a dramatic huff of air.

"Alright, Thomas," Emily mused, "now you try and go run the Maze with just a few _extra_ pounds."

Thomas attempted to sit up, but Emily leaned into his shoulders, pinning his thin frame to the ground. Newt was doubled over with laughter, and put his hands up when Thomas looked to him for help. "You dug this hole yourself, mate," he managed between a few strangled snorts.

Thomas looked back at Emily, who stared victoriously into his eyes, waiting for him to admit defeat. "Fine, point taken," he grumbled, and Emily rolled to the side. Thomas took a deep breath of air and glared at the surprisingly heavy tiny girl beside him. "But I doubt it's that hard for _you_ to breathe."

Emily laughed. "You'd be surprised. This kid is taking up a lot of space – what do you think happens to all the stuff that was already in there?" She laughed again at the thought process that was apparent on Thomas's face – first confusion, then horror, then disgust, then pity.

"Glad I'm not a woman," Thomas proclaimed, shuddering. Newt cleared his throat and gave Thomas a look. "Right. Back to why we came here."

Thomas leapt lithely – almost gloating by his ease of movement – from his spot on the grass and held out his hand. Emily groaned, and Newt came over to offer his other. With two helping hands, and several false starts, she managed to get on her feet. The boys went ahead in while Emily – whose bladder was one of the many organs being compressed – went to the bathroom. She stepped through the door to the Homestead and nearly had a heart attack at the sight that awaited her.


	13. Chapter 13

"Surprise!" A chorus of voices greeted Emily upon her entrance into the Homestead. Every Glader – except those who couldn't get out of work for the day, or the one who was just being a stubborn ass – filled the small room.

Emily began tearing up – not an uncommon occurrence as of late – as she stuttered for a response. "B-but… why…?" She noted the small parcels that many of them held, wrapped in spare rags and haphazardly tied or pinned at the corners. Newt and Thomas came up on either side of her, each taking an arm into the crook of their elbow, and led her into the center of the room.

"Welcome to your baby shower," Thomas explained, beaming. Emily had been sullen and mopey lately, and he was more than happy to see the smile that lit up her whole face. She looked once again like the girl he remembered on his first day in the Glade – an angel pulling him out of the pit of hell.

"Now you'll have more clothes, diapers, and toys than you'll know what to do with," Newt continued. Though Thomas was obviously more excited about the planning and execution, the party had initially been Newt's idea. He knew how much Emily worried about not being able to provide for her child, and with Minho's recent estrangement, she needed all the love and support they could give her. Not to mention she was absolutely dreadful at sewing and woodworking.

"You didn't have to…" Emily trailed off, already delightfully scrutinizing the shapes and sizes of the various packages around the room. Before digging into her loot, she spun around and wrapped the two conspirators in a big bear hug. It was actually easier than hugging them individually, where her considerable belly would have nowhere to go. "Thank you," she whispered, pecking Newt then Thomas on the cheek.

They helped her to the couch and sat her down in the center, taking their places on either side of her. It was an afternoon filled with love, merriment, and carefree simplicity. Emily squealed with glee at every new bauble – a swing crafted from an old rocker, a set of wooden jungle animals including the lion she'd seen Newt carving months earlier, a variety of puzzles and rattles, and, as promised, more diapers than she could count. She leaned back into the couch and rested a hand on the crest of her stomach, sighing in contentment – this child was already so dearly loved.

Chores were left undone, most of the remaining edible indulgences were consumed, and the mentally unstable father of the child they were celebrating was painfully absent, but none of that mattered at that moment. The boys were laughing and wrestling and competing against each other – taking bets on everything from the baby's gender and birth date to how much bigger they thought Emily would get before she popped.

While she did not particularly appreciate the many jokes that were made at her expense, she enjoyed witnessing their enjoyment; even Newt and Thomas were chiming in with their "insider" opinions. After one smartass comment too many – which earned the seasoned Glader who'd made it a very maternal slap on the back of the head in admonishment – Emily went outside for some fresh air.

She closed her eyes and leaned heavily against the porch railing, breathing in the potent scent of damp earth. When she opened them, she caught a swift movement out of the corner of her eye. Over by the map room, she could just make out Minho's stocky frame pacing back and forth behind the building, coming in and out of sight every few seconds.

Emily was tired of this game they were playing – they could never hope to mend their relationship if they couldn't stand to be conscious in the same room together; but every time she approached him, he retreated into whatever solitude he could find. So instead of being the instigator, she simply sat – or, more accurately, flopped – onto the glider swing and rocked back and forth, enjoying the cool breeze it generated across her flushed face.

She had nearly fallen asleep, blanketed by the warm rays of the waning sun, when the sound of heavy footsteps sloshing through wet grass brought her back to reality. Those same feet trudged up the stairs and stopped abruptly in front of the door to the Homestead, and Emily watched the indecision play across his face. Minho was unsure whether he should knock, whether he was welcome or even wanted to go in, whether he should leave the small sack he carried in front of the door, or maybe even just toss it into the bonfire. He reached out several times, the beginnings of one choice or another, before a soft squeak to his right caused him to whip his head around.

The swing that Emily occupied was all the way at the end of the porch, and Minho had not realized she was there until she had already gotten up and started walking toward him. He was about to bolt when she paused, turning to face out toward the landscape and resting her hands on the wooden railing. The sight took his breath away – she was like a living sunset, long hair cascading down her back in countless shades of gold, complemented by the rich, warm pink in her cheeks that caused her impossibly green eyes to sparkle and made her whole face glow brighter than the sun.

Emily could feel his eyes on her, but Minho didn't speak, didn't even take a step toward her. To be so close to him, and yet so distant. A single tear escaped her eye and ran down to her chin. She heard no movement, but felt his warmth as Minho stepped beside her, brushing away the wet streak with the pad of his thumb. She wanted to lean into his touch, but he pulled his hand away too quickly.

"This is for you," he said in an awkwardly formal tone, belying the intimacy they'd just shared.

"You didn't have to get me anything," Emily said quietly. His willing touch was the best gift he could have given her. Still, he shoved the small pouch into her hand and turned away while she opened it. She shook out the contents, and a small bracelet fell into her hands. It was beautiful in its simplicity; just a few thin strands of leather tightly woven together – one that perfectly matched the dark color of Minho's eyes, another that was as light as Emily's skin, and a third that was exactly in between. There was a small loop at one end that hooked around the swirling green and yellow marble that hung from the other.

Minho didn't even know why he'd made the piece of jewelry; he used found scraps and the task had occupied his restless hands, allowing his mind to wade tirelessly through the flood of dissonant feelings and memories that plagued him. "You don't have to wear it," he said, emotionless, monotone, though part of him desperately wished she would.

Minho may not have recognized the significance, the symbolism in the gift, but Emily began to have hope. "Put it on me?" she asked – a request, not a demand. If Minho was going to come back to her, he'd have to decide to do so on his own. He turned around slowly, pinching the cool, round glass between his fingers and tugging the bracelet from her grasp.

Emily held out her left wrist. Minho laid the leather flat across his hands, brushing his fingertips lightly above her wrist as he worked the clasp, raising goosebumps up and down her arm and causing her pulse to flutter beneath the translucent flesh. He stared for several moments at the earthy braid, how the colors popped against her ivory skin; her hand was still cupped in his palms.

"Minho," Emily breathed. He didn't want to look away – afraid that whatever moment of peace he was experiencing would be shattered if he did. "Minho!" she cried, and the sudden intensity startled him. Minho jumped away from her, already preparing to flee. Had he hurt her again? He should have been more vigilant. "Please don't leave me," she pleaded, at which point he finally dared to look up.

She was leaning against a porch column for support, one hand wrapped around her stomach, face twisted in a mixture of pain, confusion, and absolute terror. "Did I…?" Minho didn't know what he could have done, but there were still times the rage overtook him; he'd black out and come to minutes or even hours later, usually with a few new cuts and bruises, and never certain of what had happened.

His fears were assuaged, though only partially, when she shook her head emphatically. "No, I think it's… shuck," she cursed, pitching forward and breathing only in quick pants. Minho, as if by instinct, reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, supporting nearly all of her weight.

"Is it… is it the baby?" he asked. Either an unidentified pain twisted her gut, or she might be having the baby. The first was never good, and this early, the second wouldn't be much better.

"I- nghh!" Emily groaned, trying to catch her breath over the vice that seemed to be tightening around her midsection. She tried to stay calm; this wasn't like the last time. It didn't feel good by any means, but it did seem… natural, controlled – as opposed to the wrenching agony that she still feared would pierce through her once again. "Clint… inside…" she managed to get out between clenched teeth.

Of course. The baby shower was still going on just on the other side of the door. Minho dragged Emily back toward the party, each painful step eliciting a soft moan from the ailing girl. His arms otherwise occupied, Minho kicked in the door, splintering it off of one hinge so that it hung at a crooked and unnatural angle, grinding everything to a halt and scaring everyone half to death.

There was a beat as everyone tried to process the scene that was unfolding. "I didn't… something's wrong…" Minho tried to explain, though no one had blamed him for anything. "Where's Clint?" he demanded.

The Med Jack, who had until that point been much more interested in Minho's behavior and state of mind, rushed over to Emily's other side and helped guide her back to the couch. "What happened?" he asked, a routine and unaccusatory question, but still Minho took offense.

"Nothing happened – she was just standing there! Then all of a sudden she's doubled over and begging me to stay and, I mean, _I_ don't know what to do. _I_ don't know what's wrong!" Newt and Thomas knelt on the floor while the other boys all hovered in a little too close around her. Minho had begun to pace back and forth, continuing to ramble without actually offering any useful information.

"Are you in pain?" Clint asked, directing his questions toward Emily this time. She bit down on her bottom lip and nodded. She tried to sink deeper into the couch, away from the scrutinizing eyes of the crowd; she knew they were just concerned, but the circle of bodies surrounding her was stifling. Clint recognized her nervous glances and demanded everyone leave the room; he didn't mind being the bad guy if it was what was best for his patient.

"We're not going anywhere," Thomas and Newt said in unison, though they did back up a few paces to appease his request. Minho was now on the other side of the room, present, but watching from as far away as he could get.

With a semi-satisfied grunt, Clint turned his attention back to Emily. "Now, tell me what's wrong," he soothed in his calm, empathetic doctor voice.

"I don't –ah!" Emily clutched at her side, kneading at the tense muscles in her lower back. "I don't know," she explained, trying to take a few quick gasps. "It feels kind of like a running cramp I guess; but worse, b-bigger," she finished, shuddering out another breath.

"Minho, come over here!" Clint called. Minho was bewildered for a moment – surprised and anxious that he would have a role in whatever was happening – before taking a few cautious steps closer. "Damnit, Minho, now!" Minho jogged the rest of the way over and stood awkwardly to the side. "Everything's going to be fine," the Med Jack assured Emily with a smile, back to his genial tone. "You're doing great. I just want you to focus on breathing in through your nose, out through your mouth. I'm just going to take a quick look, see what's happening, and Minho will be right here holding your hand the whole time, okay?"

Emily looked from Clint to Minho, desperate eyes wide with need and longing. Minho wanted to leave, wanted to retreat before his nightmares became reality, wanted to cut ties and run to the Maze where it was just so easy not to _feel_ anything, everything. He stood frozen, both unwilling to stay and unable to leave.

Clint probed and tested the soft swell of Emily's abdomen, as if his hands might be able to discern what his eyes could not see. The slight pressure against the sensitive flesh caused her to cry out, arching her back in protest against the muscle spasms that insisted she curl inward on herself.

"You gotta breathe, Em," a tentative voice whispered beside her. "Come on – out. In. Out. In."

Emily hadn't realized she had been holding her breath until she began following along with Minho's coaching. Eventually, her tense muscles loosened to a dull throb, and there once again existed a world beyond her fear and pain and the soothing balm of Minho's voice. At some point, she must have also grabbed his hand because she still gripped it with enough strength to turn her knuckles white.

Several more minutes passed while Clint examined her, and though no more pains came, Emily's fingers still remained intertwined with Minho's.

"Everything seems to be fine," the Med Jack decided.

"Fine?" the whole room echoed, incredulous.

Clint shrugged. "The baby does not appear to be in distress; it's still very high – and sideways – and you're not dilated at all. But your body is changing, getting ready to bear a child."

Newt and Thomas came up behind her, and Thomas put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Then what happened?" he asked.

"Practice contractions, if I had to guess. Nothing to worry about; but if it happens again, still come and get me. Never know when it might be the real thing," Clint finished, bracing one hand against his knee to push himself off the floor. "Get some rest. I'll let the others know that everything's alright," he said with a nod toward Emily and Minho, then giving the other pair a pointed stare before making his exit.

"Glad you're okay," Thomas whispered, giving Emily's shoulder a little squeeze before following the Med Jack out the door.

"We'll check in on you later," Newt added, giving her a wink, hot on Thomas's heels and placing the broken door as close to upright and closed as it would go.

A heavy silence surrounded the couple that sat side by side on the couch alone. Minho took his hand from Emily's grasp and tucked it at his side, back to the guarded, defensive demeanor that seemed to be his default since the griever attack.

"Thank you… for staying with me," Emily said, flexing and releasing her newly chilled fingers, admiring the new charm that adorned her wrist. She stared at him, but his eyes lingered on the door that everyone else had managed to escape through. He didn't get up, but his whole body was tense and rigid – as if remaining motionless required every one of his muscles to be locked down and strain against their natural state. "It's alright, Minho. You can go," she sighed, sensing his desperation to put some distance between them.

Minho sprung from the couch with such vigor that he landed several feet away from her. He was already halfway to the door when he heard a not-quite-suppressed sniffle from behind him. The sound – like most things since the attack – elicited equal parts anger and regret within Minho. She couldn't possibly love him – she had helped trap them in this place, Minho was sure, and you didn't hurt the ones you loved like that – and thus her tears seemed to mock him. And yet Minho – who was also sure that he still cared about Emily – had seamlessly transitioned from the allayer to inflictor of her pain without so much as a thought.

"I'm sorry," he called over his shoulder as his hand reached for the door handle. Sorry that darkness now colored the once immaculate image of the girl he used to worship. Sorry that she had ever made the mistake of loving him. Sorry that he would always be a part of her life because of the child she carried.

"Minho, do you hate me?" Emily asked, though she was sure she knew the answer. Fury and frustration were constantly boiling beneath his stoic surface, barely restrained.

The man that he used to be screamed inside him to deny it, that every second Minho hesitated ripped off a piece of Emily's heart, methodically and irreparably. He couldn't force his lips to form the word 'no', but refused to allow them to say 'yes'. "I don't know," was the best he could manage before throwing open the door, freeing it from its remaining hinge.

The gates were closed for the night, so Minho propped himself up against the stone wall directly beside them, positioning himself as close to the Maze as he could get and eventually falling asleep until the sun's first rays broke across the sky. For the first time in weeks, Minho woke up alone.


	14. Chapter 14

The days and nights began to run together until they became weeks; the only indication to Minho that time was passing was the regular opening and closing of the gates. Every day just before sunset he toed the line, getting dangerously closer and closer to simply not returning back to the Glade at night.

Emily had stopped trying to interact with him – everyone had, except Thomas, the relentless good-natured blabbermouth – but he preferred it that way. Thomas always ran the exact same path and pace that had been drilled into him. Minho scoffed at the useless routine now, remembering the old saying about the definition of insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. And they called _him_ insane, simply because he chose to walk through the Maze now, examining every detail from new angles and perspectives – upside down or out of the corner of his eye, pressing his nose to the stone or climbing the vines to twenty feet in the air.

Minho was driving himself crazy; today, he only made it about half a mile into the Maze when he stopped at a dead end, convinced that he should be staring down another passageway. He turned his back to the spot, then spun back around, as if it was a magic trick and he was the magician that could dispel the illusion.

Thomas came upon him like this – hopping in a half circle back and forth, each time greeted with only the same blank wall. This wasn't the most unusual thing he'd seen Minho doing, so Thomas continued around the next bend. Just then he heard Minho scream in frustration, the sound seemingly amplified as it reverberated back and forth between the stone façade. Then came a series of soft thuds as soft human flesh impacted the unmoving rock again and again.

Thomas returned to where he'd last seen Minho, who was now throwing vicious jabs at the wall, ignoring the cracking of bone and the crimson stains that had begun streaming to the ground.

"Minho!" he exclaimed, taken aback by the boy's sudden and futile outburst. "Minho, stop! You're hurting yourself!" Thomas tried to pull one of his arms off of its trajectory, but Minho was as immovable as the object he was attempting to punch a hole through.

"This. Shouldn't. Be. Here." Minho screeched, punctuating each word with a slam of his fists. His hands were numb, but a sharp pain still radiated up his arms and through his shoulders with every blow. When his broken fists could no longer generate a satisfactory impact, he began kicking at the wall, tearing off bits of ivy, even banging his head up against it and wailing into the unforgiving stone.

The wall eventually bested him, and Minho slunk to the ground. By that point Thomas had left – Minho supposed he was still endlessly running that same damn route – but it didn't matter. The Maze had won; it always did. Minho was done.

Thomas, recognizing the shift in Minho's sanity, did not, in fact, continue to mindlessly run the Maze. He ran back to the Glade for help. He didn't want to ask anything of Emily – she'd been through enough, and asking her to go into the Maze, which definitely had its risks, to comfort the man that had shattered her soul, which was an even greater risk, was unthinkable. So Thomas systematically went through the other people that had been closest to Minho – Newt, Alby, even Gally. None of them were able to get through to Minho; he simply sat there, either not listening or not caring enough to react, waiting for the sun to go down and for the Maze to finally take him. Maybe then he'd at least find some peace.

The extended absences of an increasing number of her friends had not escaped Emily's notice. Thomas was avoiding her, and he was a terrible liar, so when she confronted him about what was going on, he told her the truth.

"He's really lost it, Em. I think he had some sort of… breakdown. Clint says he probably broke and busted and tore a bunch of things, but he won't even look at anyone. I think he's just… given up," Thomas concluded.

Emily was torn. On the one hand, she had spent a great deal of effort over the past few weeks learning how to live her life without Minho in it – how to smile until she felt some semblance of happiness, how to hold on to the last pieces of her heart by never thinking of the man who'd broken it, how to make it to the end of the day when she didn't even know how she'd make it out of bed in the morning. On the other hand, that was a life of aching and emptiness that she was not eager to live.

Though Thomas had not asked her to go to Minho – would not ask, for which she loved him dearly – she started walking toward the open gate. With every step, Emily got more and more nervous, though she wasn't exactly sure why. Maybe because she expected to find the Minho that had last walked out of her life – conflicted and enflamed with such passion that it blinded him as to whether it was fueling the love or the hate that he harbored for her.

Instead, she rounded the corner and came upon a tired boy, slumped on the ground and broken in every sense of the word. What everyone had mistaken for defeat was actually agony; Minho had been waging a war within himself – between light and dark, love and hate – both struggling for dominance, and he could no longer contain or control them. The stronger side – of which he was entirely uncertain – would win out, but that battle would mean the destruction of his other half, and he was not sure he could endure the pain.

In a way, it made them perfect for each other. Pieces of both Emily and Minho had been stripped away – by the Creators, the Maze, by time and each other – and separately, they would never be whole. In that moment Emily decided that, though few pieces of her heart remained, she would gladly give them to Minho if it meant that at least one of them would have a chance at happiness again.

Emily, with great assistance from both Thomas and Alby, knelt down in front of Minho and sat back on her heels. She reached out a hand, hesitating only a moment before brushing the hair out of his eyes, trailing her fingers along his scalp and around his ear before bringing it back around to caress his cheek.

"Minho, look at me." The corridor was crowded but completely silent, and though the request was barely a whisper, Emily's voice rang out crystal clear. Minho didn't comply – in fact, responded by turning his face away and out of her grasp – but the fact that he'd reacted at all was a greater success than any of the other boys had achieved.

It was the first time Emily had touched him in a month, and it was almost too much for him to bear – the heat of her soft fingertips like scorching iron, branding his soul in their wake. His pulse sped up and he felt _something_, but it was too soon to tell which fire was smoldering within him.

"Minho," she breathed, invoking the name like a prayer, "I don't know how much of a heart I have left to give," she said, placing her palm over his now rapidly pounding chest, "but whatever I have left, I give to you."

"I don't… I can't…" Minho stuttered, unsure of how to react. Even if she had loved him before, how could she possibly _still_ love him after all he'd said and done?

"And… it's okay that you can't do the same," she interrupted him. "I don't need it." Emily took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. "Because you've given me a whole new heart," she explained, taking one of his large hands and placing it on her stomach. "And it's perfect. She's perfect."

Something inside him snapped. Minho jerked his hand away and sprang to his feet; the darkness in him would not go down without a fight. "Stop it! Don't lie to me!" The other boys watched in tense indecision as Minho paced back and forth, anticipating the moment he would turn violent and need to be restrained.

"First of all," Emily sighed and shifted so that her butt was on the ground, splaying her legs out in front to give her aching knees a break, "what reason could I possibly have for lying? And second, which part specifically do you think I'm lying about?"

Minho paused and stared at her. He wasn't sure he could even answer the question; his addled brain was just telling him instinctively not to trust her, that anything she said was tainted with deceit. Because he couldn't formulate an adequate argument, he went on the offensive. "I hurt you – laid my hands on you and tried to kill you!" Emily picked at the dirt beneath her fingernails, unfazed by the reminder. "I lied to you – knocked you up and then promised I'd get you out of here."

Emily looked up at the sky and pursed her lips, considering his words. "Actually, I've come to terms with the fact that I'll probably end up having the baby here, raising him here."

"HER!" Minho shouted in frustration when she still didn't acknowledge his wrongdoings.

Emily smiled; though her acceptance of their circumstances was still far from the truth, she refused to give him any reason to doubt her previous declaration. This stubborn, irrational Minho was one she recognized and knew how to handle.

Minho ceased in his increasingly erratic movement and faced the wall, which he now had to admit was only a wall, and rested his forehead against the cool stone. "I thought Thomas had left me to die here in this Maze. I wish he had," he confessed to the wall.

Emily was taken aback by his sudden change in tone. He was feeling sorry for _himself_, and it was pissing her the hell off. "Damnit, Minho, suck it up!" she yelled, cheeks burning as red as her temper. Everyone – including Mino – turned to gape at her. With (almost) no assistance, she got to her feet and dusted herself off. "My first night in the Glade I was huddled up by the gate, couldn't even remember my own name, scared out of my mind, and a shuckin' griever comes up to that little window that looks out into the Maze. I was screaming, sobbing, just done with this whole damn place. And do you remember what you said to me?" Minho shook his head, as she knew he would – he could barely remember what he had for breakfast. "You said, 'Get over it. This is your life now – a new beginning and the chance to be anyone you want to be.'" Emily took one step after another toward Minho, who matched her steps moving backward until he was pressed into the corner. "Who are you going to be, Minho?"

"Why do you care? W-why does it matter?" She was giving him the chance to be the man she'd fallen in love with, and Minho had absolutely no idea why.

Emily reached up to cup his face in her hands and stared purposefully into his eyes, willing him to hear and heed her words. "I may not know how, or why, but the reason we ended up here – all of us – is because we _matter_. Minho, _you_ matter." He shook his head, though the words resonated with some deeper truth buried in his mind. "You matter to me." She pulled her arms back and set them on her hips, gently stretching the muscles in her lower back that had started to protest. "You need to make a choice, Minho. If you choose to come back to the Glade, to love me and our child and come back into our lives, then I'll be there waiting for you. If you choose to stay in the Maze, to throw away your life and the only things that have ever meant anything, well… then I suppose I'll just always be waiting for you."

She gave him a peck on the cheek before waddling back the way she came. The rest of the entourage followed after her, giving Minho the space to decide his own fate. Though he hadn't realized it until that point, there was no decision to be made. It was her; it would always be her. She – and now their child – was his life, and as long as they lived, so would he.

Minho would have followed after them immediately, ready to once again hold the woman he loved, but something Emily had said was nagging at him. He couldn't put his finger on it, and – since it was still only midday – decided to clear his mind the best way he knew how, with a run, down the same insane path he'd traversed a thousand times. His fight with the wall had left him in pretty bad shape, but after a while he'd either worked through the pain or become numb to it.

An hour or so later, Minho slowed to a walk, parsing out Emily's words, trying to figure out which ones had pulled something from his memory. He was so lost in thought that he didn't see the griever that was crawling across the wall above his head. An unusual breeze ruffled his hair and a rhythmic metallic click finally registered and he froze.

Minho couldn't run – the creature was too close – but, injured and with no weapons, would lose quickly in a fight. He had no options, and could almost laugh at how depressingly ironic it was that he would perish in the exact way he planned, at the exact moment he decided it was no longer what he wanted.

But that moment never came. The griever simply continued on its way, as if Minho didn't even exist. In that moment, Minho realized what Emily had said that itched at the back of his mind – her first night in the Glade. When someone was close by the gate, grievers would always, without fail, claw and scratch and screech at the window. They could never breech it, but they also weren't too bright, and so always tried, generating a huge ruckus and nearly scaring Greenies to death.

Minho had spent nearly every night for weeks sleeping just outside the gate, directly under that window, and no griever had ever threatened him – and he would have known, since he was only actually able to sleep on very few of those lonely and confusing nights. He suspected it had something to do with the fact that he'd been stung – perhaps some of the poison still ran through his veins, camouflaging him to the beasts. If that was the case, he wondered why no one had made this connection before; then he realized that usually, if someone was unfortunate enough to both get stung by a griever and live, they would do everything in their power to avoid encountering one again. Did that make Minho lucky or unfortunate?

He had the sudden urge to follow the griever, which was crawling along slowly and without urgency. Minho hung back a good distance at first, realizing just how insane his current situation appeared, and ready to sprint away at a moment's notice. The griever continued to ignore him, and soon he took on a more casual stance and pace.

They were almost to the end of the Maze – well, technically there was no _end_ to the Maze, but as far a runner could go before he had officially explored every passageway – when the griever stopped, grinding Minho to a halt several yards behind it. It simply stared at the blank wall – much like Minho had been doing just hours earlier.

He waited. Then, as if in slow motion, the griever started inching toward the wall. Minho held his breath as the mechanical limbs came closer and closer, anticipating the painful scraping twang that would ring out when they made contact with the stone. But the sound never came. The wall appeared completely solid, but when the griever started moving forward, it gave way, absorbing and enveloping the creature's body as if it were walking through pudding.

Minho stood there for several minutes, dumbfounded, staring down the now empty corridor. All this time they had been thinking of the Maze in two dimensions – just a series of shifting lines that could be laid out and studied on a piece of paper. Now Minho recognized the constraints that had been placed on their minds – shackles that had been broken by the griever poison – that had blinded them to the truth.

He suspected there were more places like that hidden within these walls, places that he couldn't see but somehow sensed were there, and began running back to the Glade. He had to tell them. He wasn't crazy. _There_ _was a Maze within the Maze_. With that realization, all the broken pieces of Minho's psyche clicked back into place. Minho believed, with every fiber of his being, that this would be their way out. All he had to do was find it – before they ran out of food, before the grievers killed anyone else, before Emily had the baby.

Minho ran faster.


	15. Chapter 15

Minho squeezed through the gates just as they slammed shut for the night, moving so quickly that he was barely able to stop before colliding with Newt.

"Whoa, hey!" Newt exclaimed, dodging out of the way. If Minho had run into him, Newt was pretty sure he'd end up in even worse shape than Minho was. After the adrenaline from the near-crippling experience wore off, he threw his arms around Minho. "I knew you'd find your way back, mate."

Minho, mostly back to his old self, still bristled at such a public touchy-feely display, but allowed his friend another half second of contact before breaking out of his grasp. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, having briefly forgotten about the monumental news he had to share. "Uh, thanks Newt… Good to see you too."

"Emily's back at the Homestead. I'm sure you'll be wanting to… get back to her," he said with a wink.

Minho did want to go to her, desperately, but first he needed them to know what he knew. "Newt, I want you to listen to me. I'm calling a council meeting."

"What? Now?" Newt whined.

"This is important! I figured something out about the Maze. Go find the others and meet me in the chambers." Minho took off, not waiting to see if Newt complied. Of course he would – he couldn't hide the spark of interest that flared behind his curious eyes at the little taste of information Minho had teased him with.

Minho had gone to the map room, grabbing a few of their drawings to use in the impromptu meeting. The first attendant to arrive, he spread out his papers across the floor, rearranging their order and turning them at different angles. He took a seat and fidgeted for a few minutes. His foot tapped on the floor, hands slapped inconsistent rhythms on his thighs, letting out several exasperated sighs as he waited for the others to get there.

Finally, he closed his eyes and saw an angel with emerald eyes and hair like sunlight staring back at him. He focused on her delicate, symmetrical features, taking calming breaths until everything else – anxiety, excitement, fear – melted away. When he blinked his eyes open again, the room was full. The rest of the council members had come in and taken their seats, and were simply staring at Minho like a zoo animal, waiting for him to do or say something exotic and unexpected.

Minho inhaled deeply. "I know how to get out of the Maze," he said, quiet but steady. He expected some sort of reaction – joy, incredulity, curiosity, skepticism – but was instead met with a series of blank stares.

Newt, being the mediator of the bunch, was the first to break the silence. "You… found the way out…?" It was both a question and a statement of disbelief.

"No, I figured out how to _find_ the way out," Minho explained patiently. It was a lot to take in, and Minho wasn't sure he'd believe himself if he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes. "Let me explain," he began, getting up out of his chair and walking to the drawings scattered on the floor. "We've been looking at the Maze like _this_," he said, hovering over the papers and looking straight down at them. "When we should have been looking at it like _this_," he continued, picking one up so that it was at eye level and he was staring down the hair-thin edge.

There was a moment of silence where Minho expected the logic to click into place. Then Gally shot out of his chair, knocking it backward behind him. "I told you – he's lost it!" he screamed, throwing his hands up into the air. "You all thought he'd get better, but look at him. He's shuckin' nuts!"

Minho had just told them the most important news they'd ever hear and they were calling him insane. If anything, the griever poison had given Minho an even shorter temper, and he lunged at Gally, pinning him face down on the floor with his arms behind his back. The others were about to leap to his aid when Minho put up a hand. "I'm not going to hurt him. But what I'm telling you is very important. If you don't like what I have to say, when I'm finished," he leaned harder into Gally's back and hissed in his ear, "and _only_ when I'm finished," then sat back again, "then you can throw me in the pit."

There was some whispered discussion among the council members – except Gally, whose opinion was uttered at slightly louder than a whisper – before they came to a conclusion. "Alright. Say your peace, Minho," Alby decided.

Minho released his hold on Gally, who stumbled to his feet and stormed out of the council chambers, unwilling to hear Minho's testimony. "After you left, I started to feel more like myself, but something was still bothering me. I went for a run, getting my mind in the zone so I could think, you know?" there was a collective eye roll, "and then a griever came up behind me." This got their attention.

"Shuck, you were attacked by another griever?" Newt asked, one voice within a chorus of similar questions from the others.

Minho held up his hand to silence them. "It caught me by surprise. I was injured. It should have been no contest." He waited a beat, building the suspense and adding weight to the impact of his story. "But it acted like I wasn't even there. Went right over my head." If he could get them to believe this first unbelievable part of his tale, perhaps they'd be more open to the whole invisible portal thing.

"But… how? Why?" Alby asked.

"The griever poison," Clint hypothesized, hand on his chin and brow furrowed, his clinical mind thinking through the possible explanations.

Minho snapped his fingers and pointed to the Med Jack. "That's exactly what I thought! As far as I know, no one's ever gotten stung by a griever, then been crazy enough to go out lookin' for another one! I mean, it's possible, right?" He could see them starting to get excited, but he hadn't even gotten to the good part yet. "Listen, that's not the point."

"Really? Seems like a pretty big shuckin' deal to me," Frypan said.

"No, no, no," Minho countered, "what matters is what happened _after_ the griever walked right past me."

"You followed it, didn't you?" Newt guessed, almost sounding proud. Minho nodded eagerly.

"Well… where did it go?" Winston asked, impatient.

Minho could see that the crowd was split – half of them were on the edge of their seats, the other half thought he was mad as a hatter and were annoyed that their time was being wasted. He needed to make his point, quickly. "Into the Maze."

Winston pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "You were already _in_ the Maze, slinthead," he growled.

"You don't understand. It was crawling along, then about halfway down one of the corridors, it just stopped, disappeared. Guys, it went _through_ the wall." The ones who had previously been on Minho's side looked like they were about to hop over onto the crazy train. Minho tried another tactic. "Where do you think they _go_ during the day, then, hmm?" he challenged. No one had an answer. "We run down every shuckin' inch of that Maze, everyday, and never run into a single griever."

"Not until recently…" Winston muttered. True, there had been a daytime attack, but that was a recent development.

"Let's just say that it's true, everything you just said," Clint began. "Even if this portal leads outside the Glade, outside the Maze… we are not all invisible to them, Minho. Only a handful of Gladers have ever been stung. Why would we leave the relative safety of the Glade to enter unfamiliar territory that is known to house a powerful enemy?" Always the logical, strategic thinker.

"You mean other than so we don't starve to death?" Minho snorted. Who cared about the risks? They would all die in the Glade soon enough. He tried to calm himself and reply rationally, though the words still had to escape through clenched teeth. "We wouldn't go through _their_ door, obviously."

"You think there are others?" Alby asked, both intrigued and skeptical.

"I know there are. You can see them, sort of; they look normal, solid, but also different? Like something looks… off, but you can't really put your finger on why. It's hard to explain," he sighed, frustrated at his inability to put the phenomenon into words. "Look, I don't know where they lead, but it's somewhere that's not here. And I don't know about you, but I'm getting pretty tired of this place."

Finished with his arguments – and definitely lying about allowing them to potentially throw him in the pit for the night – Minho strode toward the door. It didn't really matter if they believed him – he knew the truth of his words, and he would be out in the Maze first thing in the morning looking for their way out – but they were running out of time, and his search would be much faster if everyone else was on board with it.

Minho raced across the Glade, through the (still broken) front door, up the stairs, and into the room he hadn't slept in for weeks. Emily was curled up on his side of the bed, clutching her pillow and sobbing into his. He was taken aback by her display, until he realized that, when he still had not appeared when the gates closed at sundown, she must have assumed that Minho had chosen to remain in the Maze, give up on his life and his love. Shuck, he'd hurt her again.

"Em?" he questioned, rapping lightly on the door. She couldn't hear him over the sounds of her own grief. He walked softly to the side of the bed and knelt down in front of her. "Emily," he whispered, almost reverently, in awe at the depths of loyalty and passion this woman was capable of. Though she was shaking, Minho's hands were steady as they reached out and combed through her golden waves.

Emily should have been furious – she'd waited, for hours, for Minho to return to her. The scene felt oddly familiar. Then, just like now, Minho had broken her heart and spent the night in the Maze, though unwillingly that time; and then, just like now, he'd returned to her, to kneel at her side. It seemed a lifetime ago, and yet here they were again, traveling the same well-worn trails to the same familiar places, just like in the Maze.

Minho waited for Emily to dispense her rightful retribution, but just as Minho had learned to view the Maze differently, allowing him to discover the hidden paths that lead to their liberation, so Emily had found a new way to experience this unlikely, unusual, unpredictable life – with unconditional gratitude. "I knew you'd come back to me," she said, smiling through her tears.

Minho placed one finger under her chin and tilted her face toward him, kissing away the wet trails on her cheeks, working his way toward her mouth. The night's physical activities were complicated by Emily's comically large stomach – the rest of her was still quite petite and from behind you might not even know that she was pregnant, but when she turned to the side, her midsection seemed to stick straight out twice as long as she was wide – but they each found ways to satisfy the other's needs and desires.

Minho should have wanted to get some sleep – the next day would be challenging and exhausting, if not maddeningly frustrating – but his mind would not allow it. Emily – who, unlike the others, had immediately listened and believed in his theory, though it might have been because she was so desperate for it to be true – eventually drifted off to sleep in his arms. Even then his eyes would not close; he barely blinked for fear of spending a single second seeing anything but her angelic face, asleep and at peace.

At first light, he kissed her awake – a routine that neither of them would ever tire of – and set out to accomplish the impossible. Once the gates opened and Minho showed them one of these portals firsthand, excitement started to spread throughout the Glade. There were new areas of the Maze; there might be a way out.

Nearly every Glader who didn't have a job that was absolutely essential volunteered to help with the search; being a runner, being fast, wouldn't help in this endeavor. Minho chose the most observant boys to search the Maze – each opening manifested a little differently, and they were hard to spot even if they knew what they were looking for – and paired them up with a Glader that had been stung by a griever, in case they happened through one of the doors like the one Minho had discovered. This was their most limiting factor. Of course Minho wanted to be as safe as possible, but there were so few of these pairs and time was running out.

There were many more secret doors than anyone had anticipated, and even after several weeks of exploration – knowing what to look for – every day would bring about somewhere new, tucked around a corner or suspended several feet in the air. Most ended up revealing just short tunnels that led to other dead ends; some revealed stairs that led to nowhere, or doors that were sealed shut. Despite the failures, every new discovery carried with it a renewed sense of purpose. It was like the first time they'd mapped out the Maze – both tedious and exhilarating, and above all brought back a sense of hope to the jaded Gladers.

Memorizing the Maze had taken months, and that was only after a long period of disorganization and determining a good documentation system. Although Emily was just a week shy of her due date, now – after so many months of turmoil, confusion, desperation – Minho's promise that their child would never know the horrors of this prison actually seemed within reach.

Minho spent all his time in the Maze, searching the quarter that he thought he'd known so well, but still uncovering its secrets after all these years. He, a seasoned runner also capable of spotting the hidden alcoves, was covering much more ground than the others; every time they found somewhere new, they would race back and write down where they found it and what was on the other side of it. Minho didn't know why they bothered; once they found the true way out, there would be no reason to have a record of all the places they were leaving behind.

He was almost as deep into the Maze as you could go when something tugged in his gut. The place was familiar, for more than one reason – he'd run through it a thousand times, and then discovered it again with new eyes when he witnessed the griever's portal. As he stood there staring at what, by all appearances, was just a stone wall, it occurred to him that perhaps it wasn't a coincidence that the grievers congregated at that exact spot.

Minho squinted his eyes, trying to unfocus them enough to see beyond what his brain was telling him was a solid wall. He looked all around the large invisible opening, testing the stones above, below, across from it. Just when he thought he might go cross-eyed, a patch of light dancing along the ground directly opposite the known portal caught his attention. Even upon close inspection, it looked normal – the ivy that clung to the walls often swayed in the breeze and casted whimsical shadows on the walls and at his feet.

He couldn't figure out what was odd about it, until he realized that the reason it looked out of place was because it looked _too_ real, like a really detailed painting that had been seamlessly woven into the landscape, but oversaturated with more hues and textures than would normally exist. He stepped back to glance at a larger section of the wall. If he looked at it from his peripheral vision, he could see a distinctive outline where the Maze wall met the portal – a large circle that must have been ten feet tall and just as wide.

He reached one hand through first and felt distinctly warmed by the rays of the sun on the other side. That was different – there had been no sunlight in any of the other hidden corridors. This could be it. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and stuck his face through, as if diving under water. When he blinked his eyes open, he nearly fell to his knees. This. This was the world his brain had been fighting to remember. This was the home his family deserved.

Minho had found their Elysium, and when he crossed the threshold – even only partially – he had initiated the endgame. Minho sprinted back to the Glade, unaware that his discovery had triggered one final test, one last trial that would decide their fate. Minho focused on remembering every detail about the location of the portal in his mind, on trying to quell the excitement long enough to think rationally, on pumping more power through his legs with every stride. He was so intent on what was in front of him, he didn't see the legions of grievers that were following closely behind.


	16. Chapter 16

Minho burst through the gates just as the sun was starting to go down. "I found it! I found the way out!" He was screaming at anyone and everyone who would listen on his way to tell his very pregnant girlfriend the good news.

"What? Where?" Everyone who heard him was asking, but most of them had never even stepped foot in the Maze, making it very difficult to explain just where he'd found it.

He found Emily frowning at her dinner plate, wanting desperately to eat it, but not having the stomach room because of the almost full-term baby squeezing against all her internal organs. Minho ran up to her, first giving a peck to Emily's cheek, then one to her protruding stomach. "We're getting you out of here," he whispered to them both, eyes sparkling with excitement.

"What!" Emily exclaimed, leaping out of her seat – knocking over the tray and bumping the table – and into Minho's arms. "You… is there…"

"A way out," Minho shouted, picking up his love and swirling her around once.

Rather enjoying the sentiment behind the sweet embrace, Emily tried to ignore the painful pressure the gesture put on her already crowded insides. Through her tears, she was grinning from ear to ear. "Where is it? When can we go?" Though there was no indication that the baby was coming, Clint said it could happen any day now, and based on how uncomfortable she felt, Emily figured the kid had to be running out of room in there.

Minho bit his lip, sharing her anxiousness about making their escape before the baby came, but he didn't want to take any chances. "Well, it's pretty deep into the Maze. It took me half the day just to run back here." Emily looked toward the gate, as if she were contemplating marching toward them right that instant. "We should wait," Minho continued, desperate to keep her from doing something rash. "Yeah, there's a chance of running into a griever during the day, but I've been there at night – trust me, it'll be much safer if we wait til morning." She was still staring toward the Maze. "We won't be able to move very quickly – it's a long journey even for a runner – but if we leave early enough, we can make the whole trip while it's still light." He was trying to make generalizations, but really Emily was the reason it would take them so long. Her stomach was so large now that it created a terrible strain on her whole body, and she easily got tired and winded. Minho knew it was a touchy subject and he was hoping not to offend her, but she had stopped paying attention to him altogether. "What? Em, what is it?" he asked, concerned.

"Minho… it's getting dark."

"Yeah, which is why we need to wait until morning. Get our rest." Minho didn't understand the sudden gravity in her voice.

"No, it's getting dark… and the gates aren't closing," she finished, turning to stare at him with wide eyes.

She was right, of course. The walls should have been shifting, but instead of the usual organic scrape of stone, an inhuman mechanical clanging reached their ears. Minho turned just in time to see the first of the grievers pouring through the small opening. "Get to the Homestead. Tell everyone to board up the windows and barricade the doors."

Of course Minho wanted to stay with her, but he also had an obligation to protect his fellow Gladers. Emily understood this, and they had both already started moving, coordinating with the other leaders to try and quell the rising panic and chaos – though they were right to feel it. Minho breathed a sigh of relief when Emily disappeared into their makeshift stronghold with about a dozen other boys following close behind.

Minho recruited Newt and a few others – the same ones who were recruited to the search party, the ones that still had griever venom inside them, giving a distinct advantage to their current head-on attack strategy – to be the Homestead's first line of defense. They formed a barricade around the crudely walled-up structure, slashing and fighting, unseen, until the grievers backed off for a moment of respite.

Wave after wave of the creatures came upon them. Even if they fought perfectly, bravely, aggressively, one of the monsters would end up on the roof or through a window. Though there were experienced fighters protecting those inside as well, every so often a primal shriek would ring out over the sounds of clanging metal and the cracking of wood. Minho couldn't bring himself to look at the fallen – he could do nothing more for them than he currently was, and if one of those cries had come from Emily… he wasn't sure he could keep fighting.

Inside the Homestead was not much better. The walls creaked and boards cracked as saws and spears tested each crevice of the home for weaknesses. Every so often a Glader would be pulled through a newly created opening, and there would be a mad rush to use any and every available object to plug the hole. The night oscillated between intense, adrenaline-fueled flurries of activity, and – almost worse – the tense silences between as they awaited the next attack.

Thomas kept an eye on Emily, but in all honesty, he seemed more distressed than she did. The sounds coming from outside were nearly unbearable, and she spent the whole night doing anything and everything to otherwise occupy her mind and hands – helping to care for the injured, comforting the sobbing young ones, shoring up their meager defenses when there had been a breach; then, when she was too exhausted to continue doing all these things herself, organizing others into groups to keep the place running in her stead.

At one point, Emily became so overwhelmed that she scurried to the back corner of the room – it was by no means private, but anywhere in the Homestead that was reasonably secure was full to the brim, and this was as close to being alone as she could get. She faced the wall, pressing her forehead against the rough wood and curling her hands around the underside of her belly. Everyone inside was barely hanging on, so she couldn't even imagine how exhausted the warriors outside must have been. They had been fighting nonstop for hours, and though the sun would be up soon, there was no guarantee anymore that the Glade would be safe then.

Thomas came up behind her just as her back shuddered and a weak cry escaped her lips. "It's gonna be okay, Em," he tried to soothe, though he didn't even believe himself. "We're gonna get out of here."

She nodded, not believing him either, and whispered, "Just give me a minute?" Thomas gave her shoulder a little squeeze before turning around to help move a dresser in front of the still broken front door. For just a moment, Emily let herself fall apart; she covered her mouth with her hand and screamed softly into it, knees nearly buckling. She braced herself against the wall, doubled over and shaking with fear, anger, grief; she closed her eyes and took two deep breaths before straightening herself up and marching back into battle.

The night was long, and they lost about a dozen boys – a loss that weighed heavily on all their hearts. But as the sky began to lighten, the grievers slowly slid back into the folds of their Maze; a melancholy tone permeated their once safe haven as each remaining Glader began to bring order back to the disaster zone. As soon as the last monster disappeared behind the stone walls, Minho rushed inside to survey the damage, afraid of what – and who – he might find.

Emily was leaning heavily against the shredded couch, gingerly massaging her lower back and looking like she could sleep for three days. "Emily!" he called, almost giddy with relief, and leapt over to her. "I love you," he whispered, wrapping his large hands around the back of her neck and pulling her face toward him for a tender kiss. "Are you alright?" he questioned, just realizing how much she was using him for support.

Her eyes were closed, but all Emily could see were the terrified and helpless faces of the victims she couldn't save. "We need to leave, Minho," she insisted, letting out a pleasurable moan as Minho took over rubbing gentle circles into her back.

"I know. And we will. But let's get some rest first?" he suggested, seeing how she winced and let out a low groan with each step. They were all exhausted, and Minho suspected that their journey to the portal would not be an easy one. With the daytime attacks in the Maze, and now the nightly invasion of the Glade, the grievers were a constant threat; not to mention the fact that their escape route was located directly across the grievers' stronghold. Their best chance was to get rested, then, should the need arise, fight their way out; it didn't matter whether it was night or day anymore.

She thought about it, assessed her overused and aching body, and nodded; Minho held her arm as she stepped over and through the piles of rubble and shattered furniture of their home. Emily smiled when she saw Newt sprawled out on the floor with his head in Thomas's lap, seeing the beginning of something perhaps neither of them yet realized. The other boys had also drifted off to sleep right where they sat, but Minho and Emily decided their last moments of rest would be in the bed that held their greatest memories.

Emily let out a broken sob as they waded through the splintered remnants of the crib that had been so carefully crafted with such love. Minho hugged her close and whispered, "It's okay. Just means we're close. We are so close, Em." He was so close; soon all of this – the anxiety, the hurt, the loss – it would all be worth it. Minho sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to pull Emily with him, but she just stood there – debating whether trying to retrieve a now unrecognizable memento of the gift was worth the effort of bending down all the way to the floor. "We can build another one," he insisted, tugging at her arm again.

She nodded absently, this time allowing Minho to guide her onto the mattress beside him, though her heart felt like it had dissolved into as many pieces as the tiny bed. They curled up in each other's arms, closing their eyes for the last time in the Glade.

The sun was high in the sky when Emily woke up. Instead of feeling more rested, her muscles felt as though they had been tightly coiled the entire time. The pain in her back had gotten worse – tighter and more concentrated – and she had to take a few deep breaths before the pressure loosened enough for her to think again. Clint's vague description of how it would feel when she went into labor flashed through her mind, and she feared the dull ache from the night before was more than just overexertion.

She wanted to awaken Minho, to get everybody moving and get out of this damn Maze. But he was dead asleep, and if she interrupted the rest he so desperately needed, he'd know something was wrong. And if Minho even suspected she was having the baby, there was no way he'd lead them into griever territory, even if it might ultimately lead them to safety. She decided to keep her mouth shut and wait for him to wake up on his own.

Emily tried to go back to sleep, but no position could relieve what felt like a tight band squeezing around her torso. After a while, that band snapped like a whip – a sharp pain that started on her side, followed by aftershock spasms that rippled through the rest of her stomach. She could ignore the first two times it happened – write it off as cramps after hours of overworking her seldom used muscles – but when her stomach tightened again, she couldn't stop her tears from spilling over. They had finally found a way out of the Maze, but it had come at a huge price – the Glade opening up its gates permanently, allowing all hell to break loose at any time – and Minho wouldn't hesitate to pay it again if he discovered her pain. He wouldn't let her leave, and she couldn't let them stay.

Her sobs must have jostled the bed more than she realized, because Minho, even from his death-like sleep, pried his eyes open and shifted up onto his elbow, holding her face in his hands. He thought she was feeling guilty for everything they'd lost last night – which she was, though that's not why she was crying – and tried to comfort her. "Hey, it's okay. We're going to get out of here, and everything's going to get better. It'll all be worth it."

She nodded and rolled gently to the side. Minho sprang up and went around to her side of the bed, pulling her up, first to a seated position, then hoisting her to her feet. "Alright, then we should go. Let's go," she insisted, already hurrying to the door. Minho, who still had hold of her hand, pulled her to a stop.

"Hey, we're all anxious to get out of here, but what's the rush?" They were all uncertain and a little jumpy, but he hadn't seen her move that fast in weeks. He was actually surprised she _could_ get to the door that quickly.

Emily tapped her foot and looked around the room, trying to come up with a rational explanation. "I just… what if the grievers come back? We need to get out of here!" She was trying to keep calm, to act normal, but her hysteria was starting to bubble over. They needed to get moving and get out of there while she still could.

"We will," Minho insisted, confused and suspicious of her sudden haste. "But let's go get breakfast; you'll need your strength." Emily managed to bite back a frustrated growl, but couldn't stop the heaviness in her footsteps as she trudged along behind him.

Luckily, most of the other boys seemed as antsy and on edge as Emily did. They wanted to avoid another griever attack, and everyone wolfed down their breakfasts. Emily dropped her fork when another pain rippled through her stomach, generating more than a few glances as the clang rang out through the tense silence.

Before anyone could speculate or ask her anything, she pushed her plate away and, with some difficulty, stood up. "I can't stay here another minute. I'm getting my stuff and getting out of here. Right now." She waddled away toward the Homestead and the few intact supplies she'd need to take with her.

Minho wanted to give her some space, to let her process her grief from the night before and her fear of their uncertain future. Thomas, however – being much better at reading emotions, and definitely not ignoring the red flags popping up in his mind – followed after her.

"Emily?" he called, racing up the stairs. He walked through the splintered door and found her hastily stuffing things into a backpack. "You know Minho or I could do that for you," he commented, leaning against the door frame. "In half the time." She didn't even turn to scowl at him – which was cause for concern, since her constantly tired and aching body always had her in a foul mood. Thomas walked over and wrapped his long fingers around her forearm, calming her flurry of activity. "Hey," he said, "it's okay. We've still got time."

Emily shook her head and her bottom lip began to tremble. "We really don't," she whispered, emerald eyes sparkling with mounting tears as she returned to putting items in the knapsack.

Thomas furrowed his brow and cocked his head. "What do you mean? What's wrong?" Suddenly she stilled, and her hands dug into the bed as she leaned into it for support. "Em?" he questioned, sitting on the bed to face her when she didn't answer.

Her eyes were closed, concentrating on taking rhythmic breaths in through the nose, out through the mouth. It was worse than the last one, but still manageable. Unfortunately, breathing through the contraction took all her focus, and she wasn't aware of how much time had passed since it had seized her. It was probably only thirty seconds or so, but long enough to get Thomas's attention. "I'm fine," she insisted preemptively.

Thomas wrinkled his nose; he hated when she said that. It usually meant that she was nowhere near fine, but refused to admit it out of stubbornness. "Emily, if you don't tell me what's going on right now, so help me I will tell every single person I can find what I just saw," he warned, though he was considering doing that anyway.

Her jaw clenched and her eyes darted back and forth around the room, weighing her options. Thomas crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to give in. Emily sighed, gently massaging the tight muscles on the lower curve of her protruding stomach. "It's nothing, really," she tried to explain. "Just, you know… a contraction or two," she mumbled, looking down.

"Shit, you're having the baby!" Thomas squeaked, more of an exclamation than a question. Emily put her hands up to shush him, afraid someone might hear.

"Nonono," she whispered, trying to get him to match her tone, but Thomas looked like he was about to bolt for the door. "It could be false labor again! Clint said that could happen. And it's probably that; I mean, it's still a little early," she rambled, unsure if she was trying to convince Thomas or herself. Her pain certainly didn't _feel_ like practice.

"Emily… this is insane. Walking… all day… grievers… baby!" he couldn't even form a coherent argument, but what he managed to get out was still valid.

"Please, Thomas," she begged. "If you tell anyone, if we stay here… more people are going to die. Even if it is real… I can't… I have to…" she looked away and bit her lip.

Thomas sighed and put his arms around her. Emily turned to face him and cried into his shoulder. "I know, I know," he said, rubbing his hand up and down her back. This had always been her biggest fear, and now it was compounded with the danger it posed to her fellow Gladers, her family.

"Will you- will you help me?" she asked, eyes wide. Thomas knowing about her condition was a risk, but if this turned out to be the real thing, Emily didn't know if she'd be able to handle it on her own.

Thomas rubbed at the back of his neck and blew out a breath. He'd overheard Clint say that first time labors could take hours – days, even – in which case they could once again be trapped in the Glade at night, with Emily still not having had the baby. "If Minho finds out, he's gonna kill me," he said, conceding to the girl he'd always had a soft spot for.

She hugged him tight before turning and zipping up the stocked bags as Thomas ran to rally the troops. As soon as he was out of sight, Emily felt her abdomen tighten again and she cursed under her breath.


	17. Chapter 17

Minho, the only one who actually knew where the exit was, was in the lead. He had wanted Emily by his side, but Thomas convinced him that it was better if they stayed toward the back, in case they turned the corner straight into a griever. He reluctantly agreed, but kept glancing back to make sure he wasn't going too quickly.

The Maze was quiet; the pack of Gladers was traveling slowly, silently, so as not to draw attention, but still… they should have expected to encounter _some_ grievers along the way. The nearer they got to their freedom without hitting any lethal obstacles, the more concerned Minho got about what would be waiting for them when they finally got there.

Most of the time, Emily was able to walk through the pain; she'd been through worse. As they got deeper into the Maze, though, the pain got more intense and started to come every few minutes. Thomas would lead her around the corner and she'd loop her arms over his neck, trying to stifle a groan between tightly sealed lips. Every time this happened, Minho would double back until he caught sight of them again; usually, there was plenty of time between when Minho noticed their absence and when he made his way to the back of the crowd of anxious Gladers, but Emily's last contraction had lasted so long that when he reached them, she hadn't had time to recover.

Her arms clutched at Thomas's neck as he supported most of her weight. "It's okay. Just breathe, Em." Emily resented being spoken to like she couldn't accomplish the most basic of human tasks – breathing – but found the reminder useful as she blew out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The whole breathing thing became even more difficult as the stabbing pressure caused he knees to buckle. Her hands moved to cradle her rigid stomach, and Minho could hear her muffled groans, despite her head being buried in Thomas's shoulder.

"Em? Emily, what's wrong?" Minho asked, frantically running over to them. She stumbled away from Thomas's supporting arms and tried to smile, but she was sweaty and exhausted. "Are you okay? Do you need to stop? Should we turn around?" She was already shaking her head, but Minho was on full alert. "Clint!" he called, not wanting to take any chances.

Emily's eyes went wide and she clutched at Minho's arm. "Baby, I'm fine. Please, let's just keep going. We're almost there, right?" They had been walking for hours, so there wasn't much deeper into the Maze they _could_ go. She knew time was running out for her to have the baby anywhere but the cold, barren ground between the griever-filled walls.

Clint jogged over, and his eyes filled with concern as soon as he caught sight of Emily. "Jeff!" he yelled, calling for backup.

"Damnit, I'm fine!" Emily screeched, desperate to divert the attention away from her obvious condition. Clint and Jeff shared a look just as a warm, pink trickle of fluid began streaming down her legs. "Shuck," she muttered, watching the earth darken beneath her feet.

"Is that –" Minho didn't even have time to ask the question before Emily pitched forward, crumpling to the ground and clutching her stomach; she couldn't have stifled her next scream if she'd tried. Her water breaking had released a flood of new – and unimaginably more painful – sensations. Thomas – the only one not standing frozen in shock – knelt down beside her and put what was intended to be a comforting arm around her shoulder. She shrugged him off as an immense pressure pushed down between her legs; the baby was shifting into place, preparing to enter the world she'd fought so hard to keep it out of.

Minho shoved Thomas out of the way and took his place beside her, only this time – instead of pulling away – she sank deeply into the embrace that was offered.

"When did you start having contractions?" Clint asked after the initial surprise had worn off. Emily was still doubled over on the ground panting, so Thomas answered for her.

"This morning," he muttered, obviously feeling sheepish. If Minho hadn't been holding Emily in his arms, he would have beat the crap out of Thomas.

"You _knew_?" he bellowed. "You let her walk into this death trap knowing she was in _labor_?" Minho still had his arms around Emily, who was now shaking with silent sobs, but began estimating if he was tall enough to sweep Thomas's legs out from under him so he could kick his ass from on the ground.

"Did anyone really want to try and survive another night trapped with the grievers?" Thomas shot back. "She didn't want anyone else to get hurt," he pouted, as Newt came up beside him and placed a calming hand on his lower back. Thomas leaned into his touch, just slightly, and relaxed.

"I don't… want… my child… to live a single day… in this godforsaken place," Emily added between ragged breaths from the ground.

Minho's expression softened. "I know, baby," he said, kissing the top of her head. This was so typical of them, each trying to out-self-sacrifice the other.

Clint and Jeff knelt on either side of Minho and Emily. "How far apart are the contractions?" Jeff asked, while Clint put his hands on her stomach.

"Shit," Clint cursed when he felt how low the baby had dropped. "We don't have long."

As if to make his point, Emily sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Minho's arms tightened around her and he rocked them back and forth. "Just breathe. Just breathe, baby," he soothed. For some reason, the words didn't annoy her as much spoken in Minho's soft, deep timbre, and her panted breaths began to come out like little whines with each exhale.

Minho had never seen her like this; she was so strong – could handle damn near anything, physical or emotional – and yet here she was, falling apart in his grasp. Emily was petrified – the deep internal pressure was completely foreign and unfamiliar; there was nothing like it, and certainly no escape from it. She wouldn't wish it upon her worst enemy.

"Can you walk?" Minho asked when her breathing returned to normal.

"Y-yes," she replied, completely uncertain. But they had come so far, they were so close; and now that Minho was by her side, she would find the strength to make it to the portal.

Minho mentally kicked himself for being too preoccupied to notice that she was avoiding him. He had been so relieved to find out that she had survived the night, he had completely forgotten about the possibility that she could be having the baby. He was so busy patting himself on the back, thinking he was finally getting his family to safety, when he was really leading them into the worst situation he could imagine. Once again, he hadn't been there for Emily when she'd needed him most. "I'm so sorry," he confessed, pulling her up to her feet. "This is all my fault."

Minho delved deeply into the pit of self-loathing, and was taken aback when laughter bubbled from Emily's mouth. He looked at her like she'd lost her mind, and though she squeezed her lips together, her eyes still sparkled with amusement. "This," she explained, placing his hand on her belly, "is most definitely your fault." She giggled again as he rolled his eyes.

A clang and a scream rang out from the front of the group. "Grievers!" someone yelled.

"Nononono," Minho pleaded with the universe. "We're right there!" he exclaimed, banging his fist into the stone wall. He looked back and forth between the front line of the attack and the ailing girl in front of him. He'd made a vow to both; Emily needed him, but – though she'd be royally and rightfully pissed – she'd survive without him. Minho wasn't sure he could say the same for the Gladers currently defending against the mechanical monsters. Plus, with the griever poison still coursing through his veins, he had a unique and impressive advantage. "We're going to have to fight our way through," he said, passing Emily off to Thomas.

"What are you doing?" she asked, fear and panic rising behind her eyes. He couldn't leave her like this. He wouldn't.

Instead of answering her question, Minho addressed the boys surrounding her. "Clint, Emily needs you to deliver the baby." Then, turning to Thomas, "Thomas, she'll need you to help her through this."

"Minho, no." Sure, Thomas had been helping her out before, but she'd been doing all the work. Plus, though it was probably all the pain she was in, it seemed like he couldn't say or do anything that didn't annoy her. "I don't know how to do this. And she needs you, not me!" he shrieked.

"You've been doing a good job so far," Minho responded with bitterness, though aimed more at himself than Thomas. "And – no offense – but you're kind of a shitty fighter, Thomas. And, well, she's going to need someone if… well, in case anything happens…" he trailed off.

"Minho!" Emily cried, trying to run to him, but just then another crippling pain shot through her midsection, and instead clung desperately to Thomas for support. "Don't do this to me! I can't… I can't do this without you." She couldn't see him clearly through all the tears in her eyes.

Minho stepped forward and cupped her face in his hands. "I love you, Emily. And our baby. So much that I would do anything to give you both the life you deserve." He leaned in and kissed her deeply before bending down and resting his cheek against her stomach.

"Please," she begged, barely a whisper, threading her fingers through his fine, dark hair. Maybe if they'd just stayed in the Glade… she thought her labor would take much longer; she thought she had time.

"I'll see you soon," Minho promised and gave the baby a little peck, hoping it was a vow he could keep.

He ran into the fray as monster after monster piled up in front of the pack of Gladers. They, like Minho, would fight to the death to try and clear a path for their escape, for his child, for their future.

Thomas and Clint had to pry Emily away from the scene and around the corner, farther from the flying weapons, but they were still within earshot. She screamed, both in frustration and agony, and slid to the ground.

"Emily, I need to check your progress," Clint said, already moving to spread her legs apart. She slapped his hand away and crawled along the ground until her back was against the cold stone wall.

"Stay away from me-AH!" her warning morphed into a groan as she curled in on herself, breaths coming out as hisses – like a frightened, feral animal – between her tightly clenched jaw.

"Emily, look at me," the Med Jack ordered. "Focus on your baby. You're going to meet your child soon – yours and Minho's." He thought the mention of Minho would snap her out of it, would give her the motivation to do what she needed to do. Instead, she seemed to withdraw even further in on herself. "Thomas," Clint turned to him, attempting a new approach, "this baby is coming – soon. I need to know what we're dealing with."

Thomas was still reeling from the rapid change of events. They had almost made it to the portal, to freedom, then all hell had broken loose. Even Newt was in the battle, though he had the same advantage as Minho, thus having much better odds at survival. His gaze shifted to the terrified girl writhing on the ground next to him; Minho and Newt could handle themselves, but Emily – she needed him.

"Emily," he whispered, leaning over and brushing the long, sweat-soaked hair over her shoulder and out of her face. She flinched, but didn't withdraw from his touch. "Emily, listen to me. You're going to have a baby now." Emily shook her head and let out deep moan, but her hand reached out of its own accord, desperate for something to cling to. Thomas grabbed it, taking the opportunity to pull her to a seated position. He settled himself behind her so that his back was against the wall, and Emily was against his chest.

Clint scooted forward and pressed her knees apart, a question in his eyes. Emily gave a resigned nod and leaned her head back to rest on Thomas's shoulder, looking up at the sky. It was the same generic blue it always was; it looked so normal – a jarring contrast to the horrific scene it canopied. "I don't want to do this," she whispered mostly to herself, though Thomas answered.

"You're not alone. It'll all be over soon." Suddenly, she grabbed both of his hands in hers and screamed loud enough to drown out the battle that was ensuing just around the corner. "Close your eyes!" Thomas demanded. Her stubbornness must have dissipated with the pain, because she obliged. "Breathe in, and breathe out," he coached through several breaths. At the peak, all her muscles tensed and she arched against him. "Hey, I'm right here. I'm right here. Almost over. Almost over."

He repeated the phrases until she relaxed back against him. "Emily, the baby's coming. I need you to push," Clint instructed, resulting in Emily clamping her legs shut.

"MINHO!" she cried, flailing wildly. "Minho, I need you!" she called until her body shook with the onslaught of another contraction. She screamed and sobbed and cursed; she did everything but push. Clint tried to pin down her legs in a position that would allow the baby to come out safely, but she kept kicking and squirming out of his grasp. She continued to wail even after the vice around her midsection loosened. She was overwhelmed, coming apart at the exact moment she needed all her concentration.

"Emily," Thomas whispered in a calm, even tone. This was happening, right now, whether she wanted it to or not. "Close your eyes and take my hands." Her eyes were already closed, and it was Thomas who had to seek out her grasp, but she didn't pull away. "Listen to the sound of my voice. Focus on the feel of my hands in yours." It took a few seconds, but soon her breathing slowed and she squeezed a little tighter. Good. A small whimper escaped her mouth as another contraction began. "We are not going to panic, alright?" She was still trembling, but no longer thrashing about, so Thomas nodded to Clint, who once again pushed her knees apart. "Now, I'm going to count down from ten, and you are going to focus on bringing your child into the world, okay?"

He didn't wait for her to respond, just started counting. Emily's chin fell to her chest and she bore down, grunting and whining as her tissues shifted to accommodate the baby's head. It was the worst pain she had ever felt – it burned and it ached and it stung, everywhere and all at once. Her throat was raw from the primal sounds that ripped from her throat, but she didn't even notice them. There were only two things that existed for her anymore – the overwhelming agony, and the endless cycle of counting.

Minho could hear her cries from around the corner – all the Gladers could. Their fight was eerily silent in comparison; the only noise to fill the air was the clash of metal on metal and the occasional griever death cry. Both sides had lost warriors, but when Newt single-handedly dismembered a griever that had been stalking from above, waiting to ambush their weakened front, the tides turned. The creatures didn't retreat, but they began to doubt, hesitating just long enough for the Gladers to gain the upper hand.

Soon, there was only one monster left. Minho wanted desperately to race around the corner to appease Emily's distressed cries, but he couldn't leave his faithful comrades, who had put their trust in him, followed him, and risked everything on his behalf. "Let's do this, shuckface!" he screeched, charging at the beast head-on. The other Gladers followed suit, surrounding the griever and wasting no time in attacking.

The griever was dismembered quickly, but before it had even exploded its inner goo, Minho and Newt took off to see the ones they had been fighting for.

An almost inhuman scream reached his ears, and for a moment Minho was terrified that another griever had found them. He became more terrified when he realized the sound was coming from the love of his life. "Emily!" he cried, rushing over, but stopping a few feet from where she was propped up against Thomas. "I'm here, baby, I'm right here," he said, though she didn't appear to hear him.

"Come on, Emily, push!" Clint was trying to encourage her, but she wasn't listening to him either. It was only when Thomas began whispering in her ear, counting backwards from ten, that her features furrowed together in intense concentration and she pulled her knees back. Minho watched in fascination as the crown of the baby's head stretched at her opening, revealing a swath of dark hair.

"I can't! I CAN'T anymore!" she yelled, pounding her fist into the ground when she was opened to the widest point. "Please," she sobbed, begging everyone and no one, seeking relief that would be found only by finishing the herculean task at hand. Thomas had resumed counting, but even that wasn't enough to get her to continue. She needed Minho.

Newt had already taken a place at Thomas's side, and Minho realized he had been frozen in place. "Shuck," he muttered, wondering why he hadn't already knelt to Emily's side, taken her hands in his, and been the rock he'd promised her he'd be.

Minho got on his knees and took her face in his hands. "Emily. Emily, look at me!" She pried her eyes open a tiny slit, but they popped wide with confusion and wonder when they were greeted with Minho's radiant smile.

"You… they… you're…" she stuttered, frantic eyes darting amongst her immediate surroundings. She hadn't even noticed the battle ending, and suddenly she was surrounded by all the people she loved, the people she needed in order to get through this.

"…going to have a baby!" he finished for her, excited. Her answering smile turned into a wince as the moment of euphoria passed and another wave of agony crashed over her body. "Pushpushpush!" Minho encouraged, grabbing her hand.

Emily cried out, trembling from the force with which her body was trying to expel the baby. Her eyes never left Minho's warm, dark gaze, even the few times he snuck a peek at their child's entrance into the world. The head was out; Clint told her to stop pushing, but her body acted out of instinct – the urge to bear down like a reflex that she couldn't control. Then Emily gasped with sudden emptiness, her whole body tingling with relief as the newborn's cry replaced her own.

"She… she's perfect," Minho choked, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. "Told you it was a girl," he laughed, unable to take his eyes from the bewildered newborn. "Em, look," he instructed when she didn't immediately concur.

Emily wanted more than anything to see her daughter's face – to see if she had her eyes and Minho's mouth, his long legs and her dimples. She wanted to see these things – desperately – but was having trouble keeping her eyes open. When she couldn't form words, Emily tried to lift her arms – to cradle the daughter she'd fought so long for – but they felt heavy and cumbersome, and would not obey her.

Emily started to feel very cold and began to shiver. Though the cacophony of concerned voices dulled to a distant hum, she managed to pick out Clint shouting, "She's still bleeding!"

Minho, who was now holding their daughter, brought the baby over to Emily just as her eyes fluttered shut. She only caught a vague outline of the tiny human, but even as she drifted into unconsciousness, Emily was content in knowing that Minho would always have a piece of her to hold, to cherish, to love.

"Hang on, Em," Minho pleaded, though from too great a distance now for the longing and desperation in his voice to reignite the ache in her heart. He placed a gentle kiss on her temple, and the last thing she remembered was a feeling of weightlessness as she was lifted off the ground, a gentle breeze caressing her expended and waning body as they ran, beckoning her to freedom.


	18. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

The first thing Emily noticed was the smell. It was one she recognized – like the scented oils she used to surround herself with, but amplified a hundred times. She was lying in a field of wildflowers. When she cracked her eyes open, the world looked very similar to the one she'd left. There was grass and sky and, of course, all the boys she knew and loved. But all the colors seemed richer, more saturated, more… real. The air smelled fresher and was laced with a sense of unpredictability, of wildness, of freedom.

When Minho saw her eyes open, he jogged over, holding a small bundle. "Good morning, beautiful," he sang. His voice, his smile, his eyes, they all seemed to glow and shimmer in the absolute perfection of that moment. She had to reach out and stroke his cheek to make sure he was real.

"Is this heaven?" she asked, sure that the man leaning over her was some sort of angel.

He laughed, and it was musical and magical. "No. But I can see why you'd think that."

"Minho, what happened?" she questioned, confused and trying to take it all in. A wave of sadness crossed over his features.

"I almost lost you. We defeated the grievers, and I ran to you. In time to witness the birth of our daughter," he said, the grin returning. "But she came out a little too quickly. You lost a lot of blood."

"Where are we?" Emily asked, running her hand through his hair, around his ears; she couldn't touch him enough.

"Paradise," he revealed, waggling his eyebrows. She smacked him lightly on the arm and waited for him to explain further. "The grievers were guarding a portal. When we stepped through, it took us here," he said, gesturing to the magnificent landscape surrounding them. "There was a note from the Creators explaining that the Maze was a test. There was a parallel test being run at another location, with mostly girls." Emily looked around and noticed that their group had doubled in size… and gender. She smiled as her eyes fell on Newt and Thomas cuddling under a large oak tree. "They said if we survived, found our way out, then they'd have what they needed," he continued. Emily looked at him skeptically and he shrugged. "This was our reward – to live out the rest of our lives in peace," he said.

The little bundle in Minho's arms began to wriggle and mew, drawing Emily's eye. Suddenly her mind was flooded with memories from their last few hours in the Maze – the fear, the pain, the loss. "Is that…" she cut herself off, unsure what she'd do with the answer.

"Our daughter," he finished for her. "Would you like to hold her?" he asked, and a look of sheer terror entered Emily's eyes. "It's okay, Em. We're safe. The portal is destroyed and no one will touch us." Yes, Emily was afraid for their daughter; but more than that, she was afraid _of_ her. Every insecurity she'd ever had about being a mother caused her to shrink further into the warm earth, away from the small child that she had no idea how to care for now that it was outside her body. Minho snuggled closer, which immediately calmed her. "We can be a family now," he said gently, pushing back the blanket slightly to reveal the delicate features of their child's face.

Emily gasped and quickly snatched the girl from Minho's arms. He laughed, and gladly replaced the contents of his arms with his beloved, enveloping her in his strong embrace. "She looks just like her daddy," Emily whispered reverently, lightly tracing her fingertips over every detail of her daughter's innocent, angelic face.

"She still needs a name," Minho sighed, content to finally be holding both of his girls in his arms.

Emily leaned into his chest and he nuzzled his face in her fine, golden locks. She looked around at all the bustling spring of life that surrounded them. Because of their daughter, Minho had found a way out of the Maze. Because of their daughter, Emily had a new family to replace the one that she was forced to forget. Because of their daughter, they had all discovered an inner strength that led them to a life worth leading. Their daughter had given them…

"Hope."

"Hope," Minho agreed, grabbing her tiny hand between his two fingers. Emily twisted so that she could see his face, and her heart fluttered and soared at the awed devotion she saw there. She pulled him close and covered his mouth with hers; his lips parted in welcome. "Careful, now," he warned when she pulled away. "That's how we got here in the first place," he finished with a wink.

She stared deeply into his mischievous chocolate eyes, then down at her darling Hope as she slept – safe and at peace. "Then we must have done something right," she countered, claiming his lips once again.

_**I want to say a quick thank you to everyone that read, followed, and favorited this story, and a very special thanks to those who reviewed. Sometimes it was just the kick in the pants I needed to crank out another chapter! This was the original ending to the story, but I've enjoyed writing it so much that I'm considering a sequel – Raised in the Scorch. If I end up doing so, this story will be updated with an alternate ending. Again, thank you all so, so much!**_


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